The Uncollected Poems of Sheri St. Pierre

In Murder!, my character, Sheri, is described as a 20-something poet. Not to ruin things for you, but she's also a tramp and then uses her experiences as fodder for her poems. At one point in the show, Craig's character, Woodrow, pulls Sheri aside for a few minutes of private conversation stage right. Every night, as Craig pulls me aside and fake-talks to me, we mouth random words and phrases to each other, "I like your log cabin," or "Landen broods too much," and "Do you like my dress? It shows off my boobs." This is both a practical exercise (we need to look like we're really talking) and a dangerous one (we keep cracking each other up). At one rehearsal Craig jokingly asked that I recite some of Sheri's poems to him while we're doing our aside. But after I mouthed "There was a man from Nantucket..." to him, I was at a loss. Because I don't really know any poems off the top of my head, much less erotic ones. And while I can make a mean Indian Buffet Haiku, a poet I am not.

However, one of our other castmates (Courtney) is a poet, and a thumpin' good one. And today, she made up the following poems on the 32 bus. She claims that she doesn't want them associated with her, because they are awful. But I think she, (Courtney, that is) did a wonderful job of capturing Sheri's delightfully tacky spirit in these poems (that Courtney wrote).

And so I am happy to present: The Uncollected Poems of Sheri St. Pierre (which is a nom de plume)(For Courtney)

1. Daybreak

for Jackson

The night woods slumber--
stars so cool, the moon so bright.
My lover loves me like the night.

But morning is a flower, opening
to the touch of my Sable Apollo.

O, caress the earth, your mistress
who rests waiting for the rays
that warm and penetrate.

Morning is a flower
opening to your touch.


2. Twilight

for Martha

O summer's lush green heat
cools to autumn's ashen void,
but here he's found a summer
still supple and yielding.

Why fetter Man to the calendar,
to the endless march of day to night?
The warmth of the sun becomes
only the distant, cool moon

unless he untie the bonds
and reach out a sure, free hand
into the soft warmth of sunshine,
the open lap of day.

--

After the Harvest

after "Death in the Evening"

The old woman cries,
realizes the mist of morning will never
again dampen her hem.

She gathers the last berries and fruit
to sustain her through the winter -- a feast!
Bounty fit for gorging, indulging, but she must

peck like a bird, savor each morsel.
Though her appetites rage inside her,
she wears a mask of satiety.

Oh, that she were young again --
to wear the lace and curl her hair!
To move among men like smoke!

She cries a lot now, tasting
the last fruit of the harvest --
juice burst and spent on her tongue.

When her basket is empty and the last fruit
is eaten, still must she survive.
So she forages, collects

the scraps of other gardens,
her mouth full of a sweetness
that sours at the close of day.

--

The Depths

for Woodrow

You are your island --
a chill wind on all sides,
deep water concealing
sediment and muck.

You are your island, unreachable
untouchable without the boat
that skims a skin of blackness

The oarsman heaves his might
against the deep, his eyes
see only the hidden longing
for land, for warmth.

O Charon, row us all to safety!
Row us far from home.

--
Dialogue of Self and Self

for Landen

Here he spins in his circle, here
he can watch the clouds gather, he
knows that she can feel his heart beating.
But she looks to another --

Here he sits in his sorrow, here
the night's darkness looms -- night
holds us until the sunrise brings the ferry.
And she still cannot see --

Here he waits for his moment, here
he feels the ice melt, knowing he
alone can ask the questions and
make her know what he knows.

====

How ridiculous. I LOVE IT, obviously. Way to go Sheri(Courtney)!