image from rsc.org.uk/richard-iii
Poem written for “Richard the III” poetry contest, Robert James Liguori, sponsor, January 25, 2026
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ O crooked architect of thrones, who stacked your realm on children’s bones~ How shall I curse thee? Not with fire, nor with plague’s black breath, nor with the slow unspooling of your death (though history grants you that). No. Let the curse be this: that every mirror cracks before your face, that every hound you feed still wears York’s scent, that every victory tastes of Hastings’ blood that your crown grows thorns. that your prayers be answered, that the ghosts arrive punctually~ no missed entrances, no skipped lines and let them stand just so, in perfect blocking, downstage of your guilt. And when at last the horses fail, and the crown is traded for a nail, may you hear, beneath the drumbeat’s battle royal, the same question, endlessly rehearsed: Was it worth the play?
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