(THE POET) 10 - 22 JULY 2020
AUDIENCE POEMS
WRITE A REVOLUTION. In July 2020, writer and performer Tim Crouch performed his play I, Cinna (the poet) live on Zoom. During this interactive show, audience members were invited to write their own poem. After each performance we updated this book with new poems sent to us, and over time this moving anthology of Cinna inspired poems emerged. Thank everyone who took part.
The most powerful word is random It is unpredictable and final The word to which we must all submit Our only freedom is to name it. By Michael
Wrong place Wrong time Right place Wrong name Wrong words Right verse Wrong man Right name Wrong verse Right way Right words Wrong man Right life Wrong death Right way Wrong way Right death Wrong life Right place Right time By Martin O’Connor
The Death of Cinna the poet The Mob. The Crash. The Name. The Hurt. The long for Peace. The long for something that wasn’t going to happen. But then there is the reality of Death. By Oliver (age 13)
The Death of Cinna the poet Cinna no sinner His Life, Thrown in the Bin(er) Words didn’t save Cinna. Time for Dinner By David Charles
The Death of Cinna the poet The smallest of words, Ebb out of his broken gizzards Foretelling more deaths to come. It doesn't end here. It never ends here. Who has he died for? Will anyone even remember? Who have they killed for? Someone else's name. Someone else's name . Thanks Tim and Unicorn. Best of luck with the rest of the run. Great being a part of it. By Carmel , The Republic.
The Death Of Sinner the Poet Waiting behind his frightened door Afraid to leave To join the crowd outside Afraid to stay He knows his death is waiting Lurking outside that door Just out of reach Leaking through the cracks He peeks out The pull of the crowd Too much to bear Like a magnet, he is Catapulted into the centre A stranger landing in the midst A stranger to be feared Blamed A sinner KILL CINNA! By Mufrida
The Death of Cinna the poet Slayed Obey Died just on another day Broken Heart Nothing could be further At peace What peace? Blood runs down the corridor. END Anonymous
of now silence for now silence By Mischa Twitchin
The death of Cinna, the poet. The poet dies. I miss him. He was right there. And he was so hungry. I will speak him loud. And I will hope. By Katherine
The Death of Cinna the Poet Outside in the mob, having left the safety of tea and chicken soup Cinna, mistaken as conspirator, finds he cannot use his skill with words to bargain for his life. Inside, the kettle cools And the notifications keep pinging, whilst he bleeds and breathes his last. By Kate
The knives. The fists. The feet. Plunging into Me. My body. My life. I think. Why. As I plunge into Darkness. By Henry Rossell
A bowl sits on the table. Flies gather on the rim, drown in the milk. His room smells always of goats. By Ellie
The Death of Cinna (The Poet) “Death to the poet” the mob thinks, says, shouts, screams And so Cinna (the poet)’s story ended He faded away But as he did so he dreamt of something, He dreamt of freedom and peace And he knew we could, some day, obtain it. Cinna faded, but with a smile on his face, And freedom in his heart. By Archie Evans
I, Cinna, wear a poet’s jacket To comment on this human racket Words to me Unlock and free And help us all escape the bracket By Greg
The Death of Cinna the Poet The rabid mob tears limb from limb a man unfortunate to be there for their lynching. While he hears his own panicked screams His last lived moments flash past in front of his eyes His hopes His failures His grief. Never will his voice be heard ever again. Never will his words anger Or delight Or move anyone ever again. Never will anyone know Cinna the Poet again. With his last breath his last words leave his lips You have been fooled. By Ann Lecker
The death of Cinna the poet Innocent pencil holder Rage trembling up like a volcano in the crowd Final vision of a blade Before the burnt city turns to ash By Stan and Toby
The meaning of Cinna’s death God recognised that he should not be hurt as he is a good guy, so he can live in peace in heaven. By Gaia (7), Zoe (11) and Francesca (mum)
There was fire and there was shouting. There was guilt, there was pain. Cinna the poet cried and shouted and regretted and accepted. Then, there were tears and there was no more. By Georgina
The Death of Cinna the Poet dying for someone else's crime this is how it ended death for a death life for a life Cinna for a sinner. By Miriam Sleep (12)
The Death of Cinna the Poet Cinna A voiceless speaker Crushed beneath the rolling Waves of control and cowardice Cinna A poet without a pen Words burnt in the flickering Fickle anger of the crowds By Abigail Sleep (14)
The Death of Cinna the Poet Silenced Muted Ended Commuted Censored Mistaken identity The punched line in the middle of the play No more words No more sound No more voice No more, no more By Emily Sleep
Words course through my blood. The Kairos moment calls me. My body my pen By Sheelagh Keddie (aka Tallulah)
The Death of Cinna the poet The senseless death of Cinna, the poet Battered by the raging crowd Wrong place, wrong time, wrong person The screaming crowd just wanting blood. “I’m Cinna the poet” he screamed As he toppled to the floor Nobody listened to his protest as they enforced his silence By Victoria
I didn’t plan to die today; And in such a foolish way! Grieving citizens round my bed, A final couplet, tears being shed. All this I deserved – and more. Instead, ignominy. Such a bore. By Sheelagh Keddie (aka Tallulah)
The Death of Cinna the Poet The flash of a knife That Cinna saw Ended his innocent life The death of Cinna the poet The drunken crowd Killed Cinna The death of Cinna the poet Although he was no sinner Death by words As the words fought Words killed Cinna The death of Cinna the poet The Republic did end Anger controlled the drunken crowds The anger of the crowds Killed Cinna The death of Cinna the poet. By Andrew
The Death of Cinna (The Poet) If you doubt your words, If you do not mind the Enormous idiocy of the mob Who will kill you for your name Because they will kill anything… And who sink ferociously into the brutal Do something they can never forget Never remember without flinching, twitching, Pushing it back down… Years later in the garden Digging up a child’s toy In the launderette Watching a dirty t-shirt Being kicked about in the wash Playing with grandkids whose Unexamined adoration is an Occasional pinching reprimand. But now, today, here, They relish the violence Relish the adrenaline, the blood, Scream with glee as Cinna soils himself Whinny with pleasure as he gargles in pain. But soon they’re spent And it’s like a hangover Standing bloodied in the streets Sweat drying, hands sticky.
And the only thing left is to re-join the crowd, Any crowd, another crowd, And run, run, run into the noise The flames, the screaming hysteria. To run into something where no thoughts can reach To stay drunk until oblivion shuts everything down. And then they will search out their fellows In the weeks to come and find They cannot speak of it And that really they hate Those who shared in what they did. Enmities arise in the city That others can’t explain. Until old men (it was only men) Confess on their death beds, Or at he end of final arguments Final kisses, final visits To resentful children Who always wondered what was bothering Their generally alright Dads. By Phil Kingston
The Death of Cinna the Poet Bread. The length of time it takes to boil a kettle. A heartless chicken. Boiling. No bread. A home that is not a home. A knife. Not a bread knife. A conspiracy of chicken, heartless. Breath, body, bone and bread. Always the bread. Never the bread. What has been said and unsaid and said again? Did you speak it? Bread crumbs on the tip of your tongue. The city is burning. I have nothing clever to say. I did not agree to play this part. Why was there no heart in the chicken? Why break bread when there is none? Someone is coming. Also no one. Burn. Like love, like laughter, like life. Anonymous
The Death of Cinna The Poet That he fell Fills us with fear that we can fall That we will fall Or will refuse to, Hiding, Shifting in the shadows. Through the yells of Triumph and rage, His cries are not Heard. If a tree Falls in the wood Will anyone hear? Has it fallen? If all the trees are Screaming did we just Lose a Tree? He did nothing in Truth but live. Is that such A sin? Anonymous
Destruction Misunderstood wrongly framed fear anger freedom scared but powerful innocent finally free death act without thinking murder terror betrayal suicide regret By Ruby
Cinna, the Poet Misunderstood Misplaced Mistaken Massacred Now free By Ginny
The Death of Cinna the Poet Why? How? Who? So many questions For me, for you, for everyone. Power, words, control Purpose, intention, Fear. Gone, but alive in words. Gone, but alive in truth Gone, but alive in freedom. A bad death for a good life. By Felicity Cleaves
The Death of Cinna the Poet Words weak without deeds wise with actions Words weak without deeds individually Words wise with actions collectively Words weak or wise? wilful or woefully empty? Words have life when wordsmiths die Words of freedom of justice of hope Words from the world's republic of words Words for the world's republic of peace A peace worth dying for A peace never worth killing for A peace that has yet to be found. By Richard Cleaves
Too much hurt Too much blood Too much death Too many words Say Goodbye to Cinna. Anonymous
The Death of Cinna The Poet Words stick Words alter and sway Words trick Words can betray By Camilla de Q
Death of Cinna An angry mob rounded on me Eyes flashing dangerously, they inquired my name. “Cinna” said I, terrified. They mistook me for a bloodthirsty murderer. They fell on me As gleaming, starving eyes indulged in violence, They grabbed me, stabbed me, spat on me. They were making a mistake, I knew, But I gulped and couldn’t show my huge, inside voice. Like a shred of paper, I was clawed to pieces, Unspeakable anger was poured on me, with force. Am I a coward? Take pity on me, this is a tragic mistake, Does noone care? My voice is a tiny squeak against the Vast, ferocious boom of my foes, Or were they my friends? Anger and sorrow began to flow inside me, But as usual, I couldn’t make it show. My clothes are ripped, I am bleeding, I am broken, I am blood-stained, But my spirit is not. I will be a poet forever. By Lia Evans-Mordsley (9)
The Death of Cinna, the Poet Emboldened by Mark Antony’s oratory, the people want action, the conspirators must be held to account. But in our haste for justice, in our need for revenge, we, the people, forget ourselves. We forget about equality. We forget about liberty and freedom. We deny Cinna his chance to be heard. His crime? Mistaken identity. The wrong name in the wrong place at the wrong time. We are a baying mob. In our frenzy we slaughter an innocent man. Cinna, the poet, not the conspirator. Was Cinna not our equal? A fellow citizen deserving of the same rights as us? Or is equality simply ideological? An admirable aim, but suppressed by those who hold the power? By Sarah Rostron
Hi High Hole Whole Meet Meat Pail Pale Reel Real Male Mail Cinna Sinner Cry Lie Die Anonymous
Can thoughts be read Can ideas be changed Can feelings be altered Can spirit be subdued Can freedom be banned Can life be taken ..... .... taken so others are changed? By Sally B.
The Death Of (Cinna the Poet) And, in the end his title was his end. For Cinna was no sinner Except the words he never penned. Poor Cinna- no part of the plot he played And yet beneath the soil is laid. His words and pleas sorely failed Irony but thinly veiled. By Iris Ferrar (14)
Hope-Wind Failure-Cage Blood-Clear Pain-True Lie-Plain Fear-Choking Memories-Flaring Sadness-Billowing Thought-Bursting Seconds-Stretching Knife-Tearing END By Esther Ferrar (9)
The Death of Cinna Flashes of angry faces savouring the moment of the death of a name. Words. A poet distant from the world, living in brackets. Pains in the side as he is stabbed, and blood is pooling. They kick. They hit. Bruises, for a name. Only a name.
Caused by the Death of a dictator. The sweet blanket of death envelopes him. For a name. Burning. The death of a name. Cinna. By Bean (11)
The Death of Cinna the poet He died from Daggers. Because they thought He Lied. END. By Plum (8)
I dreamt last night that I did feast with Caesar And things unlucky charged my fantasy The dream in part reality when waking My name was stolen by conspiracy Citizens embraced me with their curses And freedom was mine by cruel death alone By Marylisa
The Death of (CINNA) the poet who decides whether blood is more [powerful] [precious] [potent] than ink? the writer, perhaps. the poet. (CINNA) spiller of ink and blood. By Hillary Dziminski
Funeral love, Bid, Poet tear, Sweet dream end, Agree, Prepared words, Tyranny, History, Don't listen, Pubs, War, Cry night shoes, Put on money, Kiss, Babies, Wonder time, Word feel, Crack style, Stupid freedom, It is again, Camp blank street, 5 minutes heart, Cinna, My death, Circle, Fire air, Feet heaven. By Sophia
He died for nothing (he would have killed for bread). He is not the only one. By Lynsey
The Death of Cinna the Poet It was a rush to get here Here being the place I sat all day He was already talking, explaining what would happen He didn’t explain that he would die (Or maybe he did, and I missed it) I put that line in brackets, he had mentioned living in brackets Did he die in brackets too? I don’t think so; he said things in brackets could be removed Without changing the meaning. I think death changes the meaning Of what came before, and what comes after When Cinna the poet died, he changed the meaning. At least a little. Anonymous
The death of Cinna the Poet As I stepped outside not knowing what lay ahead looking at the mobs the riots, the need for blood I grew scared and sad as the villain changed the public's mind and the last thing I saw a knife a truck a grave. By Tara Milne
Cut the binds Sharpen the knife Spill the blood Whatever it takes to release some of this tension By Ella
The death of Cinna the poet The mob was like a fire Spreading at will Consuming anything in its path, Everthing and anyone No matter who they were. They were like rabid dogs, Like a virus fuelled by hatred that keeps spreading The only way to stop it was revenge! The death had shown power And what connected them? They were all against the conspirators. All that is done, is done All that has been, is history So look to the future and you shall find your answer. By Moses Nelthorpe (10)
The Death Of Cinna The Poet Clenched within a future dream, of scurried words across the ticks of time, Places met with faces seen, And all was lost within the rhyme. Dust fell upon his parchment peace, Scrunched within his fist-raised hand, As shadows boxed upon mistrust, He returned to salt, to stone, to sand. By Katherine Montgomery
The Death of Cinna the Poet (a warning to the world) He was. Was he, ever. His words With his words, he was. Can a poet be killed? Can a spirit be silenced? by Shir F.
the death of cinna the poet stirred up hearts wild a broiling broth seeking an outlet channeled into him through him -- a lightning rod for the swell of their pain a gentle, fearful idealist no answer to why just senseless until he is sense-less until he is inert; no longer unable to choose a side sometimes there is no meaning sometimes there is no closure live for the times you can toss a pebble in a lake and see that it ripples out live for every moment you can find meaning in and every moment in between By Clara (the poet)
The Death of Cinna The shouting crowds screaming Death to Cinna The innocent life ended in blood and tears. Wrong time Wrong place The end of Cinna the poet. By Beatrice Chinellato (9)
Wrong man, wrong place Wrong words, wrong lines Wrong time, wrong space Right name, wrong sinner Now free, gone Cinna END Anonymous
The death of Cinna He was only out to buy a loaf of bread But what was he doing, really? Was he doing Anything? Or was he doing Nothing at all? And isn't doing Nothing at all Actually Doing something? How violent was his Silence? Through his lack of Words Does he surrender The right To say Any Words At all? Anonymous
The Death of Cinna (the poet) Coming were the people Coming were the crowd Coming were the armed Came Closing in with fists Closing in with knives Closing in with hatred Closed in Going was my feeling Going was my mind Going was my breath Gone forever By Ottilie
The dream came true. How could it, it was just a dream. But it did come true and Cinna was killed For having the wrong name. The right man in the wrong place at the wrong time Just with the wrong name. So wrong. Totally wrong. By Maggie
Mistaken. Innocent? Guilty? Brutal, by the Mob, charged by words. For what? For justice? For revenge? For democracy? A life lost. A life. The life. Of Cinna, the poet. By Lisa
The blur of colour The chaos of sound The mob surrounds him Innocent, defenceless Imprisoned in a world A world of hatred and confusion The terror The rage The end By Beatrice
The Death of Cinna, the Poet His words, ripped to shreds, and yet ‘free’. A life in brackets, the life destroyed, yet the sentence lives on. He died for a word - his own name. In the end, it was a word that sentenced him to death. By Verity Glover
The Death of Cinna the Poet I fell I fell, to share my words. None join at my side The pain, as the knives pierce my skin - shining teeth Then a torch, the heat - 3rd degree Sweat and blood fill my mouth, This is the taste of death, The taste I shall always remember I am no longer Cinna the Poet, but Cinna the Dead Unable to bring air to my lungs Unable to feel What can I do? Now I think no more I live no more, I am free My words and me By Leila Beal (11)
The Death of Cinna the Poet Here lies Cinna, at least . . . I think it's Cinna There was a crime . . . . . . . not a rhyme Was there terror? . . . . . . . or a clerical error The end His end here he lies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . or maybe he told the truth By Andy Ray
Cinna, THE POET, was no sinner Both Cinna and Caesar are slain today How much suffering and pain I pray Do we need to show us a new way To live in peace, with respect every day. To speak or not was Cinna’s crime To write in prose or write in rhyme But as an honest man he did die Holding his beliefs true and strongly as he did lie. I hope from his death the people mourn And from these events a new hope is born So people may live fair and equal lives No longer stabbed with violent knives. By Pamela & Eloise
Cina, the replaceable one made the mission to be done. Dictators, live in this world afraid of poems, even a word. So, even in this case we could've seen dictator's ugly face. By Vladimir Popadic
Facing the mob With misplaced optimism Naively unaware That words would be his end. The same name; A different person It’s no matter Yet it’s life and death. Brutal and poetic Poignant and prosaic Will anyone notice? Will anything change? Will it matter anyway? Anonymous
I calmly walked down the street, They mistook me for a killer, They’re wrong. They’re wrong. I am a poet. By Hester Perkins
The Death of Cinna, The Poet Cinna, a poet with no words Cinna, a poet with no food Cinna, a poet in the room with a door to the outside Cinna, safe Cinna, a poet who reads the news Cinna, a poet who braves the door Cinna, wrong place, wrong time, wrong name … wronged By Linda Shaw
The Death of Cinna, the poet Today blood spilled legion a concrete tower of words on the ground crumbling into ash dirt rain fire swept in the haze of oblivion we were here, the poet says. but where is the poem? in the belly of life in the act of love in the fury of being stained in no-glory name called yet unremembered and yet the poet lives destined for a plaque a mark on the land begging still the thought of lifting voice
who are you? a question harsh to some but beloved by others the poet leaves their tongue to others ... desire swims free in a pool of their own blood look at the sun how it burns for the poet marked wounded upon the gravel speak the sins of the earth bending toward ill rivers polluted by change and greed and the dead carcasses of animals. we are here, the poet says but how can we be? By Caridad Svich
The Death of Cinna the Poet I was innocent, just a man seeking truth, Murdered by the herd, the mindless herd. My words are weapons but a name is just a name. I have done nothing, nothing worth killing me for. By Peter Heller
The death of Cinna the poet Sentenced to death for not finishing a sentence Actions speak louder than words , the crowd cry, Actions speak louder than words Anonymous
Raze, raise. Lie, lie. Cinna, Cinna. Cinna died. By Kate Hefferman
Only One justice, belief killed Cinna the Poet. No Dialogue. No Imagination for others. Trying to know other people. Everybody has own background. Respect the existence of other people. ただ1つの正義、信念が詩人のCinnaを殺した。 対話はない。 他人への想像力もない。 他の人たちを知ろうとしよう。 みんながそれぞれの背景を持っている。 他の人の存在を尊重しよう。 By Fuyuko Okawara
The Death of Cinna The Poet The blood The people The bells The hands Tearing Grabbing Screaming Ringing Hell’s bells In brackets Closed curtains Shut doors Mistaken Anger Blinded Revenge Burning Flaming Tongues of Fresh fire Waiting Watching Baying Yelling
Drowned out No more Words mean Nothing here Broken Slung into Open grave No one saved By Lydia (Age 11)
The Death of Cinna The Poet A mob has no shape A mob has no thoughts An entity with no focus But ultimate power The power to wipe out a single voice A man’s lone voice calling in the wind. Do his words make any difference? Protestations of innocence hold no sway Consumed in an onslaught of noise Like water rushing over a beach His bloody footsteps momentarily visible in the shifting sand Then gone for ever. By Anna
I am an artist Art is political Politics are dangerous I am a coward. Mistaken identity? By Sara
And with that I died, the space turned black and the anger of many people consumed me and rang on into the darkness. The hate of thousands and thousands sparked by mere words out of one man’s mouth. Words, they are many things ; knives, swords, plasters and cleansers. Words are for the Many. Anonymous
The Death of Cinna the Poet He was once but good But them lot thought he bad Then they ripped his guts ‌ ‌ and then they ate his skin! By Steven
The poets words will go on The poeple dont listen The words will go on Listen Listen to what is right Make up your own mind And die for the words The words of the poet You You will go on Listen Go You are free You are a poet Do the right thing Listen By MuriĂŤl Haarlem (45)
Cinna died today. Cinna died the death of Ceasar, though he was no Caesar. No one will speak at our funeral. No one will fight for his legacy. Cinna died the death of Ceasar, thought he was no one to no one. How many died a Ceasar’s death that night? Anonymous
It must be freedom. I must be free, But am I really? Is it really Are we really Must we really Should we really Should I really Why? How? When? Where? ..... Yes or no? What's it gonna be? ME By Rachel Haarlem (19)
Is there every justice in death? Poor, rich, tall, small, death has no judgement, bar it’s final judgement of taking life. How can a name given at birth pave the path of someone’s destiny? Does no one death hold true meaning, or does everyone’s death hold true meaning? What if Cinna died in vain? Anonymous
The Death of Cinna the Poet White fury takes from me the weight of the silver in my hand, I feel it wrap its arms tight across my chest suffocating me, yet I am free. Three words repeat themselves in my head, again and again and again. As I stare at the man at my feet (where he is from, I do not know) As I take from one man the liberty I seek, I am free~ I am free. By Emmie
The Death of Cinna the Poet Any death leaves a space... an unfinished sentence an unformed thought when it is ripped unfathomably from (Cinna the Poet) What will be remembered? By Caron
The Death of Cinna The Poet The death of the poet. What died with him? The death of the poet Not hard to do. The death of the poet. The troubled poet. The death of the poet The listener. The death of the poet. What if the mob had listened to him? The death of the poet Did they have no poetry inside them? The death of the poet What died with him? By Sean Taylor
Cinna was a poet, But his murderers didn’t know it. He was accused of something he hadn’t done, They killed him in front of everyone. Cinna was a poet, But (unfortunately), his murderers didn’t know it. By Hadar (9) The Death of Cinna the Poet Cinna’s sin What was it? The pen is mightier than the sword For some that may be true. Was it for Cinna? Sword plunged into his flesh, Beaten Bruised and Battered. Perhaps? The pen grants him eternity In the poet Shakespeare’s verse. Never forgotten – This obscure poet, murdered due to mistaken identity. Never forgotten Because of another poet’s words. Never forgotten, The poet Cinna lives. Eternally on the page. By Yoni Oppenheim
Death I can’t think it The word fails as the wounds open. Unjust to be taken and taken wrongly. My meaning draining away Torn down, I pant. No light I want to rise Puddled on the road Ugly corpse to others Collateral Music is somewhere else Anonymous
The Death of Cinna the Poet Red. Senseless, or sensing. A moment arrives before them. His name is a bullet loaded. Triggered. Breathless and beating, the rhythm of their bloodied fists. The poet is no more, and yet Cinna lives. By Simon
The death of Cinna the poet He died in the midst of it all Confused, confronted and tired He died when he finally dared. Dared to step out, Away from his clouded mind, and finally shout. Hidden for too long He sang his final song, He dies in the midst of signing for us all. Anonymous
The Death of Cinna changed nothing Made no difference, But lived in the memory of others Made words significant Created a reason to care, I’ll kill for something I’ll die for everyone He said. And yet his death, His death meant nothing But his words lived on, and on, and on. By Stuart Mullins
The Death of Cinna the poet His name is Cinna In name and deed That’s what they told me But I don’t believe The words they speak Just because they come from on high Pedestaled Placed Privileged A lie? And if they lie about this When else might they lie? And if they kill so easily Who else might die? It’s one from the top But many from the bottom
That base Begins to burn And brighten Change Consolidate The sinner is dead But for us It’s not too late... By Amelia Donkor
Words flew from him quicker than his breath, Up(loaded) into the Blue and then the Black Where they were mistaken for the flutter of a lark Anonymous
We arrived too late. Words lost meaning, Actions scattered sense to the wind, Burning brighter than inflammatory speech. Verbiage splattered with brutal hits. We lost ourselves; Civility a film of letters Dissolving into malapropisms. Is this rebuilding A common tongue after The fall of Babel? Anonymous The Death of Cinna the poet I will not go outside today. Except he did, but what awaits him? Flashes. Screams. Adrenalin pulsing through his veins his deadly silence which kept him going was the cause for his demise. Why? Where? Whose fault was it that he died. his name being the reason but not only his name Mark Antony’s adrenaline, his shouts. he is human, but what he does suggests the opposite. By Sebastian (12)
The death of Cinna the poet Mistaken as someone else, we don't know why But because of Caesar he can never die People may think that he is dead But thoughts are still whirling inside his head But even though he is in fire and we don't know why Because of Caesar he can never die By Florence Reid (8)
The death of Cinna the poet What is the point? Mistaken identity Wrong place wrong time Did we need retribution? What about retribution for a confused life unable to be lived? Is this the window to freedom or the door to another caged existence? WHAT IS FREEDOM? A freedom republic...could there be such a thing? Is this what we protest for or does the power inevitably pass from one grubby hand to another as more bodies fall... AM I FREE NOW? By Andrea Hemmett
THE DEATH OF CINNA Cinna the Poor Poet The poet The man Cried because he could not find the heart of a chicken. Wide-eyed, He wanted us to be as equals. As equals. as the of a chicken. Felt felt felt felt talked wanted talked waited for the phone to chirp, to cheep looked for the heart of the followed the facts the cause the fault the entered the through the cinna the poor poet. was not to go outside again today.
killed [would kill] for a loaf of bread died for his bad verses. Cinna Not That the poet a the wide-eyed stuttering pleading, but he dreamed his death. By Serena Berman
The death of cinna the poet To stand Stand by So strongly stand In Time Stand up and speak OUT/Stand. Be seen And shout with letters in a row Like pretty maids/Mother/Mary Dont stay Contrary Thats no Defence 2B Just Standing By Take up the letters all 26 Like weapons, Arms Fire like bullets Aim 2B Seen and heard And Change The Range The Rage, the Ran/the Rag/the Age and ANGER THE A IS JUST AT THE BEGINNING, so CONTINUE Anonymous
Death of Cinna (the poet) as with all the small words of at in on oh eh oh ah an a if it wasn't for them it wouldn't be for those BIG looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong glorious ones we use to define ourselves and each other your death a small happening in the grand scheme of things but not in me not in this moment ----Death of Cinna (the poet) Like the heart in the chicken unnoticed until gone
Dauði (ljóðskáldsins) Cinna Eins og hjarta kjúklingsins óséð þar til það hvarf -----Takk fyrir að minna mig á vægi orða og hversu flókið það er að tala tvö tungumál með eitt hjarta By Gudrun Soley Sigurdardottir
Cinna Is Nothing Now Assassinated By John Chapman
The Death of Cinna the Poet Cinna dies when he has no words or because he has the wrong name or because he has the right name in the wrong place or time Cinna dies in full view there are no brackets to his death Cinna dies in a place at a time on a day expected or unexpected on a day like any other or a day so different it is remembered for all time Cinna’s death is his alone we may mourn his passing we may grieve his death sing his praises or bemoan his faults but we cannot share in his death it is his last great solo show Cinna the poet is dead By Jan Probst
Cinna de poet Wanted bread But he was a muppet Ended up dead By Yolanda
The Death of Cinna the Poet Artists are dangerous because they ask questions. Because they analyse patterns. Because they try to see the bigger picture. Because they read. Because they know. Because the mob will always prefer to tear an artist with questions LIMB from LIMB sooner than examine their choices or check their privelege or listen to others or wear a mask. Artists are dangerous. They mirror what we don’t want to see - that we are Medusa, and we are petrified. So of course, when totalitarians take over, the artists are discredited and killed. By Conor Hanratty
The mustard bees Charge through They came To free the world Cinna the poet wanted to join But the mob would not let him They stabbed him again and again But Cinna the poet would not let them kill him His kidneys failed Oh well, the mob said By Aquiles (12)
The death of Cinna the poet He wanted to write for freedom But his name betrayed him A coward, afraid to write guilty words Cinna the poet Cinna the poet Cinna the poet Cinna the poet It must be by his death. I AM FREE. The end. Anonymous
(Living In Brackets) Space that pulls apart inside Parentheses stretch to breaking Empty Hollow, then Dies away Deceptively central Disposable Removed By Esther Dix
THE DEATH OF CINNA THE POET Tear him, tear him The wrong name, the wrong place No I am the poet Tear him tear him Pluck but his name tear, tear him, him Trampled , torn, bleeding, Not a man Not a poet Nothing Empty brackets () By Maxine THE DEATH OF CINNA THE POET At the end bloodied Cinna cries out against the injustice of the small, naked hen on his poor table uncooked By Janet M
The death of Cinna The Poet - a Death March for freedom We will be satisfied - the crowd (crown) roar(s) for capitalist goods yet no blood will be shed in the living rooms for equality for the environment for a better future We will be satisfied - the people stream into the streets to the pubs from the pubs to the clubs to the chicken shops and kebab houses to the houses full of capitalist goods blood was shed in an alley blood was shed in the middle of a road blood was shed in a toilet We will be satisfied - the masses are angered by the incoming masses by the unemployed masses by the black mass We will be satisfied We will be satisfied by the beast with no heart Anonymous
The Death Of Cinna, The Poet The thumbprint of a human is individual. Who was he? Has he left a mark? An inky trace of his existence? A smudge on a page. A comma. A footnote. Will we remember his name? Will we #CinnaThePoet tonight? Will his words define him? Will his fear mix with the scent of anger and sweat and chicken blood? And fear and fear and fear. Was he free? He held the pen but he censored himself. Censorship. Fear. Freedom of speech? Are we really free if these modern day distractions block and disturb, invade and saturate our clarity? Our imagination? Our dreams? What ink will you leave? Will we be remembered? Or will this world Tippex over our flaws? Our thoughts. Our dreams. Anonymous
The death of Cinna the poet. What did he stand for? Did he fight? Yes, he fought for breath. But in the end breath defeated him... and left. And what of his words now? Unwritten... lost. Unread... tombstones. Unearthed...give breath. What will you stand for? Will you fight? Nicky Harley
Words mean nothing Except for what they mean Twenty-six letters on their own Mean nothing But combine them and they spell Thousands Tenthousands Millions Countless Different possibilities for meaning Would I die for those twenty-six letters? Could I combine them until I could use them to kill? Some words have felt like death before Some words sting and Some words sink Deep into my stomach And make a home there and Leave a hole there That may never close again But come close again And see The bleeding is all internal And I have used words as a shield before Have put them up between me and The world outside Between me and Harm’s way And I can say I have yielded before Surrendered my body And what my body alone was unable to say Through words
There have been times when words have eaten at me Nibbled away at my spine Or gnawed at my ear And I fear The moment when they show up inside me Without warning And refuse to leave my head Until I let them out at the mouth So that they can eat at someone else instead And that Spells dangers Because words that leave my mouth Can hurt And words mean nothing Except when they are heard By Elisabeth Lewerenz
The death of Cinna the poet Step outside, I live in brackets. The street is full of rioting people. I am Cinna. They ask me who I am, I say Cinna. I do not lie. They say ‘tear him apart, he is a conspirator’ I am a poet. A flash of a knife, I will never die, Blinding pain I am preserved in words. By Rosie Hooper (age 11)
The death of Cinna the poet He lives and dies, a simple death by the knife, as terror flares around him the blood pierces the night the final blow a terrifying smite his death wasn’t meant to be. By Bob Hooper (age 9)
The Death of Cina The Poet It was the day of the riot Where the dark sky met the blood on the stairs. He was there but did not know why. What led him out, nobody knew. Was it the noise? Was it the tears? The screams? He walked through the front door and onto the road To see. You see, he was the poet He wanted to fill his lungs with the voices and the pain The knife went first through the hand ‘I am just a poet’ The knife went second through the mouth Red pearls onto the round The knife went third through the heart Nobody came. Alexia K. H.
The Death of Cinna, the poet Words are words Not chicken hearts or bread Words make words In Cinna’s sleeping head Words tell words That something’s still not said Words end words But Cinna is not dead The riot’s dreams have all come true The dogs are slipped and roaring But sentences are still brand new This poem’s here and talking These words are changing me These words are changing you By John
Stay Home. Stay Safe. Except to defend Life and Love Then, join And march And, yes, perhaps destroy. But when those who love tyranny are on the streets... Stay Home. Stay Safe. And write To bring them down With your words. By Diana
THE WORDS Cinna suffered from bouts of poignant irrationality He knew there were mobs outside anybody who owned a window knew there were mobs outside But Cinna...the great poet...uniter of the people (he thought) He didn’t go out much so he never really had the opportunity to unite anything But that day he had a plan He would go to the grocery store Stand on one of the crates And start an impromptu speech. 3 days of his life he had spent writing the speech It wasn’t a masterpiece or anything but it was of its time After dressing for the occasion Cinna walked out Muttering the speech to himself trying to remember the words People were stabbing each other Kicking each other Cinna barely noticed, he was so excited about his big day Running down the street he saw the grocery store The roof had been completely destroyed A rack of salads and such had been thrown to the floor And the place seemed to have been taken over by the homeless (who were using the wooden crates as firewood)
He went in and saw his crowd mostly on the floor. As he unsheathed his poem, The lack of enthusiasm in their eyes was palpable, Most of them were illiterate and were angered at the mention of poetry There was a silent consensus amongst his audience to let him speak: «Hello people, my people, I, Cinna present to you» The silent consensus was over, they now all wanted to kill him. It was a whimsical moment for those not involved in the situation. The audience weren’t very talkative They didn’t even ask for the spelling of his name (then again they were illiterate) This was any poet’s nightmare, being killed by illiterates. He died by stampeding along with two other members of his audience. Oddly, as he died the only thing he could think of were The words if his speech, like he would need them for purgatory.
by Sebastien Cimpaye, age 13 (Ottawa, Canada)
To Pierce a Poor Poet’s Heart Twas’ the way they plucked him Slipping fingers With thy steaming hand, To pierce a poor poet’s heart Strong odor of passage, Not flight, red mercury Politics confusing a calling To pierce a poor poet’s heart The knife enters the soul And shall not reveal itself again; But the animals turn wilder To pierce a poor poet’s heart. by Eugenie Priven, age 13; inspired by “I, Cinna”
(THE POET) 10 - 22 July 2020
Writer and Performer Tim Crouch Director Naomi Wirthner
Designer Lily Arnold
Video and Lighting Designer Will Monks
Composer and Sound Designer Owen Crouch
Digital Production Consultants Matt Humphrey & John Schwab
for CurtainCall
Originally commissioned by the RSC as part of the 2012 World Shakespeare Festival Unicorn Online has been made possible with the generous support of the Backstage Trust and Bloomberg Philanthropies.
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