1. SHAKESPEARE EXPECTED
William Shakespeare of an actual presence.
His knee sore from kneeling, his teeth chattering, his
wrap wet and gritty from the dirty rain.
I take a front seat at the rehearsal where he is
expected.
Hamlet has shown, his hand already cupped to hold a
skull.
Ophelia presses out her dress, still damp from having
been worn under her coat.
And Shakespeare is trudging, trudging, toward the
theater.
Trying to get in the mood in this weather is like
trying to play a piano with mittens.
The day is too thickly about one.
The crowd sees in his dramas the debris of an
exhausted court.
While his patrons, addicted to bouquets, believe
them to be the consummate valediction of their
lively personalities.
Here he comes now, a bard in sheep’s clothing.
At the stage door, he steps out of his time and into
the future.
I can see now that Ophelia will drown in her beauty
before she dies.
That Hamlet will kill himself first in word, then in
deed.
2. SHAKESPEARE DISMISSED
I can’t say why he thinks himself Shakespeare at the
window.
I can’t explain his predilection for iambics and
balconies.
He has fallen on his sword, he has nothing.
The gangrenous covers of old books stick together
on the shelves.
People have memorized his sonnets for their own
reasons.
Why have I not spoken to him?
What do you think he thinks about, this old derelict
of words?
This overgrown boy who cannot let go of a lump of
coal.
Who has broken the balsa airplane.
And now dons a canvas coat to make his way to the
theater in the rain.
And a cap, and sunglasses in the winter.
I swear, trying to get in the right mood still means
falling on one’s sword.
The backslapping buffoonery, the sublimity of
tragedy-he has the bruises and the scars, and the
sinkholes of infection.
Here he is now, stepping around the shards of a
mirror the lead actress threw across the stage when
she thought he was not coming.
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