To Whom It May Concern

This is the latest poem I wrote for our ensemble project that we semi-successfully performed in a huge, old theatre in Cortona. It was the opening dialogue that all the actors "read" from letters that they were writing. It was a short play with six actors that loosely explored the difficulty of writing down your true feelings for someone you love. It was very well received, but it was an incredibly trying process creating it. All of the actors cast had different backgrounds and ideas on how to create theatre, and unfortunately several of them had never attempted to create theatre with other people before. Man, we're talking DRAMA-- and I don't theatrical literature... (Sigh) I'm very happy it's over. And I'm proud of us for completing it. So anyway, below is the poem that I wrote for it.


To Whom It May Concern:

I keep pressing my pen, tip weeping ink,
against this paper to share what I think,
to write down the words I cannot speak.
But each word I write, I crush with critique.
Clumsy, witless, miserable.
Ideas are worth nothing when words emerge dull.
My endeavor seems fruitless, no letter have I
To give to you, the apple of my eye.

Yours truly