Steudel - New Theatre

Coach House Books, Toronto Copyright Susan Steudel, 2012 first edition All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Distribution of this electronic edition via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please do not participate in electronic piracy of copyright material; purchase only authorized electronic editions. We appreciate your support of the author's rights. Published with the generous assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

Coach House Books also acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit. LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUE IN PUBLISHING Steudel, Susan [1968-] New theatre / Susan Steudel. Poems. eISBN 978-1-77056-307-0 I. Title. PS8637.T48435N48 C811.6 C2012-900245-3 For Jeff, Chris and WilNew theatre can exist; judging by many signs, it is near.

It issymptomatic that, instead of directors theories, plays appear; instead of productions we get dramatic works which dictate how they are to be produced. Nikolai Punin, Iskusstvo Kommuny, No. 2, December 15, 1918 There were so many things that didnt exist. Lisa Robertson

The dead give way want to curl against you like a new life, want to carry the bowl with you and me in it. A penny hidden in a teacup, teacup turned upside down. Where the lake was once.

Evaporated. A flame cups into wax new phased (faced).

The spirits must write. Paper, a break in cloud. At the start there was a fire. Ink caked, disintegrated.

Feathered ash. It is first heard through a cup pressed to a wall. Your cup. Maybe I am imagining a different country or non-action. A lie pulls a scarf from my mouth.

The city is a folk tune.

The city is a folk tune.

The city, mirrored in night sky. Listening to the revolutionary poems. The old venue creaks under our feet. Reality a roofless house. A small dog wanders into the poem, slinks out. Some dogma makes out with itself.

I can navigate this. I dont know you but it doesnt matter.

I wake in darkness thinking of an Edward Hopper documentary narrated by Steve Martin. I see in detail a corner of theatres and taxis, an orderly photographers studio, and invent motives for the noncommittal postures. Facades, muddiness of concrete. A simple dress.

I wake beneath dark lamps, my window fractions into deeper darkness. A flooded road, faces of the brown deer and limping buck. From an antler grass trails by the roots.

A new theatre opened last night. The theme of the program.

Theoretical mathematics. He offered therapy for her ailment. By the door or thereabouts. The university published her thesis. Thick walls. The paint had thickened.

The thickness of the paper. A thin strip.What is that thing? I think things will improve soon. Sought to quench his thirst. He was thirsty after the journey. Pricked herself on a thorn. The plants thorny stem.

He is very thorough in his work. The thoroughfare was blocked by an accident. Search the room thoroughly. He was happy though he lost. She kept her thoughts to herself. Cotton threads.

A threadbare jacket. He made several dark threats. He threatened his employment. She shall not cross the threshold of my home. It gives me a thrill to be here.