The Lyric Theatre: Lyceum of Dreams

Nick Finney - On the occasion of the reopening of the Lyric Theatre, 1940s Black dream house, Lexington, Kentucky

On the East End, we shine our own shoes, dress our own legs,

smooth down willful hair, let all new trouble float. Done-up.

We promenade and pass, Deweese (DoAsYouPlease) & 3rd, where

Winkfield & Murphy once hoofed & flew backwards, black-winged,

on horseback. Under the blazing marquee we hand our shiny quarter

over, glide toward, then across, our eight-point star, rose-tile light

of regeneration. In the dark theatre, the salt-cod sweat of work, now left

behind, names hurled our way all day, now set aside, pay cheques that never

match our labour folded away now. House lights dim: Paul Robeson is

Othello. Miss Ella strikes & swings. The Duke & Count jazz-juice the night,

royalty speaks to royalty. The Ink Spots spill all with Sarah Vaughan, Miss Mahalia

orchestrates & moans and moonbeams, Candy Johnson & his Peppermint Sticks

fill every inch of stage. Marian Anderson poses her hands in alto-soprano.

Woody Strode, our Black cowboy, wild-rides the open oat fields & range.

Our dusty eyes drink in Beah Richards, Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne.

Intermission at the Lyric: Lights up! Freda Jones tries on a brand-new

hat and no one is arrested. Bernard Lewis licks his ice cream cone on every

melting side, no one is booked for licking or loitering. Morgan and

Marvin Smith, the famous picture- taking twins, take our picture too.

At the Lyric we pose, bright futures we portray. At the Lyric we fall in love

with our lips: Lucinda kisses Big Tank clear through the opening act. Julia

can’t see the show for looking at the ocean of their mouths; open, close.

We cry at the Lyric, laugh out loud at the Lyric. Whisper Quiet! Here comes

the principal! Miss Lucy Harth Smith proudly takes her seat. At the Lyric,

William Wells Brown pulls out his indelible pen to write us down. Isaac

Scott Hathaway shapes our faces in a mustard-amber clay on new money.

We come to the Lyric to rise, rejuvenate, see ourselves win, watch ourselves lifted

up in lights, hit the home run, be hero champion of the world. Only to file

back out live & alive, stroll back across the rays of the eight-point star, rose-tile

light of return, sink back into the race- track of the East End with everything

we have now become. Sweet Lyric, lyceum of dreams, where once we came

to rise into who Mama, not dime-store magazines, promised us we were.