Evan Guilford-Blake has written some 40 produced plays for adults and young audiences, which have been produced in the U.S., Canada, England, Israel, and Australia. He has won 42 playwriting competitions including the Eamon Keane Award; the Tennessee Williams Competition, twice (he is the only playwright who has done so); the NETC/Aurand Harris Award for Telling William Tell, published by YouthPLAYS; and the East Valley Children’s Theatre 2012 competition for The Bluebird Prince, published by Pioneer Drama Service; as well as numerous awards for his short fiction and poetry.
… In the childhood of time, they lived their separate lives:
the sea, damp and cool,
and the land, dry and warm;
and they loved each other in silence.
And once, in the moonlight,
the sea cradled the waves, and rocked them gently to shore,
“There are secrets”;
and the shore replied:
I know them all.
Thus the night passed;
and in the morning’s light the shore held to its breast the risen tide
and said to it
You may go; but always, always, you must take me with you,
and we shall, in time, become as the day and the night,
forever changing, forever becoming one.
Thus, by the sun, did the tide go out,
carrying with it grains of sand,
and laid them, softly, to rest (as lovers shall)
beneath its rising and falling;
by the moon, the tide returned
to caress again the shore’s sweeping body
and, lapping gently, drew to its coolness the warmth of the heated land;
until, at last, time became old
and the sea and the shore became one.
IN REPLY TO A MESSAGE FROM BARBARA
Nor have I yet forgotten you;
Nor, love, shall I ever:
Even autumn’s dying leaves
Hear echoes of September.
Nor have I yet forsaken you;
Nor spurned my desire:
Even ashes left to chill
Feel shadows of the fire.
Nor have I yet forgiven you;
Nor yet reread your letters:
The first sweet tastes of fine liqueur
Cloud after-tastes of bitters…
…FROM ACORNS GROW
–for Raymond Carver
Eighty-four years old and bundled against the first day of spring
Whose fluttery breezes
Skip through your silver hair
Behind your slow steps
As you plod the pavement arm-in-arm
with another woman, half your age
Beside a girl whose acorn face gapes and gawks at all the motion,
Whose step is the spring itself
You left so long ago.
Still, it is spring;
And you, old oak,
Mine is a twenty-first century life:
I’m raced from thought to thought and place to place
By scientific marvel; but that race
(I plead) Is better run by rats. My wife
Observes my soul mayhap belong to times
–Before tv screens, telephones and cars,
‘Ere free verse, or the Dow or sushi bars–
When poetry was Art’s marvel of rhymes
And each tomorrow was a taken day
When men might meditate upon their dreams,
Might watch the stippl’d sky and rippl’d streams,
Might breathe the sweet intent in spring’s sachet
And even – on a whim – compose a sonnet.
But soft! my soul is there; depend upon it.
SONNET FOR SUSAN
Words are words; and so, though kind or cruel,
Are only shades of meanings incomplete.
On well-built craft their demons do unfurl
And trav’lers cours’d to sail without deceit
Are set adrift by unforgiving Fates
T’ward ports uncharted by the ancient’s past.
Words are words; and so, though cruel or kind,
Are portraits only done in blacks and white
Revealing not the hues of troubled minds
But images half-hid in hindered light.
Hold love, not to kind or cruel words’ states
But reach where colors harbor, holding fast:
Deep, where truth lies waiting, there lies reason;
Shallow truth belies youth’s heart and season.