Poetry. That's what this play is all about. There is a story -and a thrilling one!- but it is really of no importance: it's no more than a frame. A window, if you like. And, like every window, it provides an outlook, but at the same time restricts it. The window has pierced the blind wall to show us a view; say, a landscape, but it is no more than a part of a landscape. What would make the landscape complete, what would put it in a context, is beyond our view.

It's pretty much like pictures in a holiday brochure: beautiful skies, deep blue seas and picturesque alleys, but when we actually get there we find that the photographer has overlooked the oil-refinery half a mile away, and the binmen are on strike again.

Poems are just like that: they, too, show us only a little part of something we really know nothing about. But what if we put a bunch of them together? All little parts of different villages, different people, different landscapes? Suddenly the picturesque village alley turns out to be a slummy back street, as the next shot of the fancy boulevard around the corner shows. The green waving trees on another don't mean the outskirts of a mighty forest: it's just a little park behind the post office, as the next photo tells us. And that lady sitting on a bench, the one with the raven hair? Whatever the next picture will show: a grocer's, a shabby hotel or a nursery school: the logic of our mind will faultlessly come up with her life-story.

Poetry, as I said. I have only used complete poems, no fragments to make them fit in with the story. That would be cheating, and I prefer to leave the cheating to the poems themselves, when they appear to tell a story they were never meant to tell...

...or were they?

Marcel Wick, 2011.

The ARCADIA*****Hotel
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