Only 137 Wild Bees

We’ve asked the theatre pack students to write a Tweet version of their plays, because, at this point in the development process, compressing a ten-minute play into less than 140 characters is a good exercise. Plus, I’ve been asked to submit a play to a DC theatre and part of that application requires a Tweet description of the work. So, process and marketing rolled into one.

Here’s mine for my short Armagh Project play, Wild Bees:

Upset by Sean O’Casey, Yeats takes to his bed. After years of searching for Other Side confirmation, fairies climb in his bedroom window.

 

2 comments

  1. If only Yeats had been forced to compress his meaning into 140 characters. Well, there’s the gravestone epitaph I hope we’ll see in Drumcliff churchyard this weekend. Nice compression, but what does casting a cold eye mean?

  2. Yes, if only Yeats had Tweeted . . . Many interpretations of his gravestone self-epitaph, part of one of his last poems, Under Ben Bulben, argue what “cold eye” on life and death can mean. He’s no doubt wrestling with his temporality, was ill, cranky and close to the end. William F. Buckley thought Yeats was referring to how Medieval gatekeepers checked people for plague, but in reading Ben Bulben, I was struck how WBY again references his Sligo connections (“an ancestor was a rector” in the Drumcliff churchyard) and how he seems to want to lie in a place where he belonged. I was also reminded of the folklore story he chronicled of the salmon Michael who evades death and then longs for it. I hope WBY had reached a place where he could consider the exit from his body with a cool distance: go ahead, horseman death, do your best, I have lived.

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