Poetic Bloomings gave us a list of words and asked us to replace them with words of the same meaning. Tricky!
challenge, common, mask, skill, origin, love, night, drink, beauty, death.
Since my ordinary self is unworthy, tonight I will wear a mask.
If I thus disguise myself she will not think to ask....
She will not say 'What! You again!' with her usual scornful laugh,
Covering her positive loathing with a little light-hearted chaff.
I'll put myself on trial when she answers her front door.
She won't know it's me, of lowly birth, who's called on her before.
I'll gaze upon her loveliness and, maybe, she'll ask me in!
And in the darkness I may find that affection I've always yearned to win.
She will learn that I have ability; we may imbibe sweet wine.
And before the evening's over, all heaven may be mine.
Yes, this face is sure to fool her; if it doesn't life will cease,
If I don't get results tonight it will herald my decease!
When I saw this show upon the stage I was utterly transported,
But now I've seen the film I have to say I'm slightly thwarted.
Acting? Great. Scenery? Fine. Music? Just as soaring.
And yet towards the end I found the whole thing rather boring!
People were sniffing round me so I was the odd one out;
I know I'll be considered too critical, without the slightest doubt.
But I've analysed my reactions to the show upon the screen,
And I think I know why it fell short of the stage-shows I had seen.
As staged, the show was music first, with the characters writ small;
Facial expressions, from afar, were hardly seen at all.
All emotion was painted by music and glorious voices singing
And imagination played a part, an extra dimension bringing.
On the screen the agony was presented by expressions;
Faces filled the cinema during dreadful suffering sessions.
Javert's death in the stage-show was subtle, but made me shiver,
Just a dying cry as he toppled, and the splash as he hit the river.
Javert's death in the latest film was a spectacle indeed;
He perched precariously on a ledge before he did the deed.
The waters of the river roared below like Niagara falls;
Paris was in the picture too, all its windows, roofs and walls.
And yet it didn't move me! Perhaps I am to blame.
After all I am no critic and I do not make that claim.