Picture of the month

Emmy, played by Phillippa Lusty pic by Ed Duffield

A poem by Frank Linn, inspired by our production of The Vampire

Darkness turns to glorious day
The Cornish skies grew dark this eve as unforecast clouds came blustering in.
The flowers and trees shrivelled and wilted as the radiant sunshine,
cowering, deserted them, the inclement weather now reaching Truro like a dark veil -
a twist of fate, uncannily coinciding with the reworking of our opera from circa 1828 .
Der Vampyr is resurrected from a 19th century grave,
dusted off, polished, revamped, you might say,
iced with a tough Glaswegian flavour by director Sparrow’s pallet knife,
musically-superb chorus batoning from maestro Drayton’s podium grandstand.
The necropolis backdrop beckons to the unsuspecting audience,
drawing them through the iron gothic gates,
by the overgrown forgotten graves,
through the mist past the solitary gravedigger’s shovel,
to the vampires’ layer deep within.
But could this opera have been cursed?
Was there an evil spell?
In the wind and rain lashing Truro’s cobbled streets,
were there supernatural powers at work - who can tell?
Let me lay the evidence before you; see what you wish to find;
if you don’t BELIEVE! - this poem may or may not change your mind.
EINS akt: THE VAMPIRE DOWNLOADS A VIRUS.
Our first show goes well without a hitch: two murders, one wedding,
a vampire dragged screaming down’t pit.
But later our poor vampire felt frail,
his illness getting steadily worse during the following few days.
The only conclusion we could make, it must have been something he ate.
Perhaps it was the remnants of garlic bread pulsing round Janthe’s young veins.
Our ailing Vampire in a bat flap made a visitation to Dr Marschner’s surgery,
complaining of dire symptoms his poor victims in the past have felt
when unfortunately crossing the path of he.
A tickly sore throat, uncontrollable chattering teeth,
bright light aversion, not wanting anything to eat.
Sleeping through the day, cold and clammy even when wearing a string vest,
a sharp internal pain LIKE A DAGGER IN HIS CHEST.
Heavy sunrise coffin, not being able to keep a lid on it,
a lack of bridal blood in his blood, a grave situation Dr Marschner diagnosed it.
But after a week of convalescing in a Cornish crypt by the sea,
a couple of blood transfusions and some new Fixodent for his teeth,
our bloodsucker recuperated and in the night began to rise,
to join Der Vampyr opera once more, to play havoc with three young brides.
ZWEI Akt: MY POOR CHILD. Where can her cycling shorts be/
where have they wandered?
Singing chess pieces check mating,
Trago vases spontaneously exploding,
Witches and phantoms not allowing the house lights to dim and go down.
A drained daughter’s body falling, her modest dress mysteriously rising,
seasoned male chorus smiling at scenes they haven’t acted in for a while.
Fairy cakes with cherries missing, the company and audience reluctantly evacuating,
alarm bells ringing for no known reason at all.
Was it faulty wiring, running through damp crevices and cracks,
or an old frail fuse giving up the ghost, snuffing out - or going lame,
or was it the phantom of an operatic society lurking in the theatre vaults below,
sniggering in the shadows with his struck Swan Vesta burning at full flame.
On these eventful nights God almighty was standing by our side;
we soldiered on with dedication and pride,
we raised our voices and created joy in people’s lives.
Good overcame evil from that point and our opera grew and thrived.
So now, my friends, it’s time for drinking,
long life and happiness to you all.
Darkness has turned to a glorious day for Duchy opera
and long may the society stand tall.
But before I go one mystery remains - an unanswered question of old,
a horror that will make you positively shiver, make any musician stone cold.
Buried deep in folklore a whisper through the ages, an enigma, an urban myth,
THE MYSTERY! Well! What exactly -- is a DIMINISHED FIFTH??!!