Fortnightly Poem 15.B (Karen’s)

Still on the Shakespearian theme, this fortnight I’ve chosen a poem which is an homage to my Dad, who amongst many other things (one of which was not a Russian spy!) was a passionate admirer of Shakespeare. As the poem The Old King (from my collection of the same name, published in 2003) illustrates, he played most of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes in his time.

The Old King  

The old king has gone. Exit Stage Left.

Not to the thunderous applause for all those

Other exits, save that of jealous friends

Who wished to emulate his final Act,

Or cheered his greatness –

His late greatness.

He was the Prince of Denmark

Suffering slings and arrows,

Outrageous fortune, all his life.

But he did take arms against the world’s

Troubled seas, personally feeling

All its pain, in his soul believing that

By opposing, he would help end them.

No more: no longer nobler in his mind to suffer,

To bear the whips and scorns of time.

He chose to die: a sleep to end

The heartache.

This Lear too,

Demanded extraordinary love

Of his beloved three—a love not even promised

By snake-tongued sisters.

Sufficient love to let him go untimely.

And Lear raged with oak-cleaving thunderbolts

In a way our dear king did not.

He did not wish to live, pray, sing and tell

Old tales and laugh at gilded butterflies.

He chose to die: a sleep to end

The heartache.

Of the Scottish king, he shared no traits

Save his Celtic once-dark hair, and skin so fair

That carefree childhood under the wrong sun

Recall a moth and flame…

And yes, he had ambition, no black and

Deep desires, but for an end to war.

His life a fight for peace, but too early

Thought his battle done, laid down his sword

And chose to die: Out, out brief candle—

A sleep to end the heartache.

But hold, I cannot say Amen…

The old king is gone, our father, our king

And whilst he would have cried that

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

We were the stuff that stage was made of

Now empty, save for the heartache.

Endangered Species (7/11/2001)

S 11 World Trade Centre –

another day we all remember where we were.

I awoke to be told to turn on the TV.

What? in the morning?

A shattered dawn—

the ultimate American disaster movie.

So shocked our toast lay cold

and we watched in stunned silence.

Could I possibly go through

the motions of a ‘normal day?’

Feeling lucky to be standing under a hot shower

to be standing…

Functioning on automatic

staggering to work.

Feeling lucky I can.

Grateful that it’s not in a tower

As I walk my single flight of stairs

all to myself

I think of those other stairs

the crushed spilling panic.

My ‘work’ today

was not trapped in an office

but pure pleasure –

a guided bush walk.

The kiss of Spring on our cheeks

the gentle hint of sunny summers.

No crisp morning warning

of winter’s breath.

A wildflower walk—

wondering at their beauty,

minute, subtle

and very fragile.

A patch of earth

casually nondescript.

A blur of grey, sort of green

asking (really) to be trampled

In fact it held a myriad species,

each truly complex.

Not perfect of course – quite a few hybrids,

but each one so precious.

Marvelling too,

at the skill of our guide.

All that Latin – the minute minutiae.

How astonishing, how creative, the human brain.

So delicate the balance—

poised on the lightest sliver.

Not enough care

and it will all be

obliterated.

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Fortnightly Poem 15.A (Featured)

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