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.