The wisest fool in Christendom was
old
and tired of such hypocrisy, the
lies
that drove poor Timon out into the
cold,
that led Macbeth his own life to
despise.
No more the shadows of the candle’s
flame,
the fawning children and the
relative
obscurity, just thirty-seven plays
and sonnets to a form superlative,
plus handbills from all his old productions,
tributes sent from Marston, Lyle and
Jonson,
that battered box of grease-paints
(slightly damp)
inherited by will of William Kemp.
Yet all of these no joy to him could
bring –
not least the commendation from the
King.
Such were the reliques of a life now
used,
a mind which out of chaos order
weaved,
a heart whole dedicated to the Muse
(the fame he had aspired to, and
achieved).
There, on the desk before him, his
life’s work,
the last botched masterpiece, the
folio
and quarto manuscripts (dead letterwork!
wisdom from the mouth of some
Malvolio!).
All of this fugue and toil, this
lucid heart,
this slow progress of thought and
soul and Art,
this scorn, this vision that
dissolved in rain,
this scroll on which he’d proudly
scratched his name.
This to a man’s whole Life and Will
attested –
yet did not even know that he
existed.
"Homage to William Shakespeare" is published in "Welcome To My World, Selected Poems 1973-2013", The Argaman Press. Click here to purchase the book.
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The Argaman Press
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