To my fellow poets,
for William Shakespeare
Discredit all that you will read about me.
Treasonous hands have bestowed difficult words
which even this immortal life cannot contain.
A life that could be credited to the entirety of
the dictionary, as I had intentionally rewritten
the English language.
And now those same words are accusatory.
Those of you who felt the sharp prick on Sonnet feet,
you knew that it was not true.
You knew without aid.
Intent, I was, to light the lamp.
Intent, I was, to lead.
So what of this man, Francis Bacon, you discuss?
In this meeting of true minds do you still distrust?
Take only my words, would you.
You wish I would make you privy to
the years 1585 through 1592?
- “to escape prosecution for deer poaching.”
- “minding the horses of theatre patrons in London.”
- “or that I might have been a country schoolmaster.”
Is a man not entitled to some secrecy?
There are some things even a Catholic schoolboy will not confess.
What of the hearsay?
My fellow poets.
They say we cannot be playwrights.
They say we cannot be storytellers.
But four hundred years prior, I had proven them wrong.
So what say they now?
And yes it is so, that I had said
“all the world's a stage,
and one man in his time plays many parts...”
So cast the final role, you in charge of my documentation.
What part now do you wish me to play?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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sex object. not afraid of the words. I've used many objects for the sake of sex. in fact my body has been pretty disposable- I don't...
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
i have always wanted to write about Shakespeare but the odd line aside, i have never been able to pull off something like this piece - congrats, i'm VERY impressed :))
ReplyDeletehappy to impress you, my talented friend.
ReplyDeletewonderful! he's a favorite of mine, and I love that you took his side in the debate on his writings and his person. <3
ReplyDeleteVery impressive. I love Shakespeare. <3
ReplyDeleteI wish I could write of other people as you do. Lovely.
Thanks guys I am so excited you are reading :)
ReplyDeleteAnother wonder of yours a.m. Shakespeare this time, incredible. I love how you identify with each poet you write about. It is an amazing manner or style you have and your use of words greatly carried out so creatively. Love it all.
ReplyDeleteI am happy you appreciate. I absolutely adore the priviledge of closely encountering poets and their personalities.
ReplyDeletea couple funny stories about my time as a lit major:
one: this poem got as much flack as it received praise. I lot of the (mostly women) that I studied with were convinced that Shakespeare was Bacon, and they disliked my take on the matter.
Also, others had a difficult time seeing Shakespeare as anything more than a playwright,
despite reminding of his Sonnets and that he started out as a poet. Some people are just really short sighted :)
two: I had a hard time with people in my "field" who are really in it to read short stories/novels and scoff at everything else. They acted like it was their job to hate poetry, so I conversely I acted like it was my job to love it. I also take a lot of interest in the poet's personal life and their intent, and I would give talks about them, with people walking out saying I spoiled the piece for them-like I was giving away the plot of a movie during the opening credit sequence. ...
people are funny.