(for Gordon Chater)
like a trouper
he removes his make-up
face lathered in cleansing cream
daubing with tissues
dream-like
a sleep-walker
he's done this
a thousand times before
theatre ritual
taking off the make-up
always with a sense of loss
another piece of life lost
silence weighs like bereavement
Pamela Sidney
Stagedoor
(for Nureyev)
What was it moved me that day
to turn a corner
walk down an unfamiliar street
to glimpse a dream
I finished busking
an average afternoon
neither sun nor rain
a narrow lane
near the old market Covent Garden
at the back of The Royal Opera House
ahead on my left
the 'stagedoor' disgorges
a flurry of people -
backstage crew surely ?
But my eyes widen
incredulous
my heart jumps to see a face
I know so well
Slavic, sensual
partner in dance
to my idol, Fonteyn
A slim striking animated figure
standing apart talking
dressed head to toe in brown
casual
trousers, knee-high boots
Maoist cap,
and a neck scarf
slung over one shoulder.
(he casts me back
to childhood's fragile dreams
fairytale mythologies
classical ballet
Tchaikovsky
Pavlova's dying swan
her solo par de bourre`
fluttering
trembling to it's last breath
and Chauvire
her gentle, mad Giselle
a tear
slipping down her innocent cheek)
No dream this.
I am in the presence of a myth
this fiery Russian
said to be difficult
temperamental
a legend in his own lifetime
at the height of his prowess –
standing
on this ordinary street
feet away -
Nureyev !
Pamela Sidney 7.8.05
