Craig Paynter Stanislavski

 
Eric Stanislavski wondered why, so foolishly,
His compatriots were putting a 'y' for an 'i'.
Imagine, "Stanislav Sky!"
He gallantly left it as an 'i' on the customs form
He filled out when he landed on Ellis Island
But he cleverly changed 'Erik' to 'Eric'.

From Ellis Island he transfered to Brooklyn
Because he had heard about the Dodgers
Being the best baseball team, in New York,
The greatest town in all of the United States.
There he set up a Coffee Shop
Selling ground coffee, cake and espresso.

He did well out of journalists and artists
Pining for the Parisian Café Society
Discussing philosophy, music, books and acting
As if tomorrow will never come too soon,
Late into the night without a whiff of wine,
Just coffee, cigarettes and wild women.

The journalists never wrote about the Coffee Shop,
The artists never painted it.
The foreigners thought nothing of it and yet
Eric had no reason to complain about the business.
The pastry was always fresh and abundant
And the aroma of coffee was to the American taste.

He knew something was up when Faye started
Turning up wearing eye makeup, repeatedly,
But each time, the person for whom she waited never came.
Then he began to wonder whether it wasn't for him!
"Good morning, Faye. You are looking gorgeous!"
Thus the ice broke and things unfolded rather rapidly.

The Coffee Shop became a problem for the Town Hall
When everyone started arriving in automobiles.
In front of these parked cars Eric declared,
"Al Fresco means 'at the freshness'
No one comes here to breath fumes, get it?
Build me a carpark further on down the road!"

The imperative tone, the urgency of his plea,
The truth in the voice, the elegance of common sense
Prevailed right through this Parisian quarter
And the new carpark was opened in the year
That a child was born to Eric and Faye.
They named him Craig Paynter Stanislavski.

Faye Paynter was mostly out of work.
She was good at both writing and acting.
One day at the Coffee Shop, she was dreaming
When she heard, "You should write screenplays!"
Then she heard bells ringing, line after line,
A veritable flooding of eloquent verse.

Such she thought was the difference
Between sea and shore, the transparent boundaries
That separate the hard and the soft in liquid air
Between the sheets, nakedly suffuse in
The act of creation, painted on the sky
Rising from the font of the verdant flowing sap.

Clive Harness, the editor of Bacina Press,
The foremost literary journal in Manhattan,
Crossed the bridge daily to come and sit inside.
In the smoky atmosphere he recalled with melancoly
A sweet moment in his past sitting with a lady
Somewhat like Faye but much less in love.

"Yes", Clive Harness said to Faye Paynter.
"Yes I can pass it on to Heather Hopper
But would you not prefer the leading role too?
Alice sounds like you and it would be a sensation;
An actress who performs her own screenplays."
"Never mind about all that." Faye Paynter replied.

"Oh hello Truman, how are things at Tiffany's?"

As he said this in his worst ingratiating tone
Clive Harness tripped on the toes of the teenage sensation
Destined for greatness, an Oscar Wilde reborn.
Clive did not fall but he had to wave his arms about
Looking slightly ridiculous for a man in a suit.
"Everyone wore suits!" Eric Stanislavski bemused.

The floor was marble. Shoes tapped on it.
Outside where the tables stood it was brick.
Shoes had polished it to a vaguely autumnal gloss,
Sometimes rubbing them in uncontrollable mirth,
Sometimes grinding them around in nervousness
Or scraping up suddenly to greet an important person.

Concluding everlasting pacts of literary alliance
Sometimes took place huddled in the chilly air,
Hands clasped around cups of hot chocolate
Prepared in the Italian manner of middle density,
Warming the hearts towards some measure of bonhommie.
In such a setting Eric and Faye looked upon the star.

Craig Paynter Stanislavski kept his hair well trimmed.
In tweeds, it was how a young architect ought to look.
He saw that the Coffee Shop was now full of beatniks.
There was this guy, a folk singer, with harmonica and guitar.
He told everyone that one day he was going to make it,
On the other side, in the basements of Greenwich Village.

Why, the other day the same guy got himself a Nobel Prize!

ROMA, 5 11 2016