Improv 1, Week 10

My first improve for this week riffs Kathy Fagan's piece, "Diadem"

Diadem

When the moon assembles the stars on the blue baldachin
And I am become the perfect center of one
Five-pointed star, the hole in my own crown,
Having seen the crown, Stephanos,
Gold in the blue atmosphere,
I will walk to my coronation
Amind minions of maple and beech
Who bow and bow,
Their young hair spiked in the cool atmosphere,
Gowns aroar like oceans in an ocean's shell.

At what moment will I first look up?
From what will I turn away?

In that rare atmosphere,
I will walk a path like powder underfoot
Through leafy mayapples-those excellent witnesses-
A cardinal ahead, the three queen mothers, my subjects' limber
Backs, lovely hair, a roar that dies down dies down
And in awful light, I will accept
My scepter. The usual
Fanfare, the pink embellishments. Bells, trumpets.
Then will I be annointed by no one,
And serve him well.


Research says that in ancient times, diadems were the the fillet of silk, wool, or linen tied about the head of a king, queen, or priest as a distinguishing mark. Later, it was a band of gold, which gave rise to the crown. In heraldry, the diadem is one of the arched bars that support the crown. As I riffed this piece, adhering to the speaker's "subjects" and how the subjects worshipped the speakers, I found myself referencing a tone matching that of a musical concert. I decided to let my language flow to see what I could come up with while reflecting as much of Fagan's "audience honoring the speaker" tone as possible. In my case, by the time I finished the piece, my audience ended up worshipping a musical performer rather than one of royalty.


Rhythm's Inter-Nation

When the sun pulls back the clouds on the black diving board
And I am losing the broken home of two
Six-cornered diamonds, the square in my camera,
Having viewed the camera, Scorsese,
White in the pale air,
I will swim to my dissipation
Amongst lackeys of strawberries and chestnut
Who stand and cheer,
Their sticky-toddler hands mosh-pitted in the musty air,
Cells pinging like the maple center of a bell

At which point will I then drop down?
From what will I start my engines?

In that desired moment,
I will tred the water like Triton’s soldiers
Through coral reefs- those blood-sucking-bats
A Cicada behind, the four spade brothers, my people’s taught
Abs, shagged hair, a wave that rises higher rises higher,
And in the bated night, I will deny
My sword. The sentimental
Music, the black blushes. Triangles, chimes.
Then I will be denoted by one note,
And worship him horrendously.