Long Marlowe Poems
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I hear England's strong voice praising its past:
Football's World Cup glory in 1966,
Shakespeare and Marlowe penning plays,
Sir Francis Drake circumnavigating the world,
Queen Elizabeth I, with the stomach and heart of a king,
Queen Victoria, with her ever expanding empire and waistline,
Constable, Turner and Reynolds painting pictures...
and yes, although it can only whisper of its today,
it shall sing once more of new glories,
it shall shout from its rooftops for St George,
and be proud of its past and present.
A little Patriotic free verse for Carolyn's contest, inspired by Whitman's 'I hear America singing'
There is no sin but ignorance. (Christopher Marlowe)
Sin is the failure of an imperfectly made being to keep a perfect law. (Matthew Pearl-"The Dante Club")
ASSUMPTION:
Sin does not exist
Until or unless
It is publicized.
PRESUMPTION:
Public scandal
Is what makes
A sinful act offensive.
QUESTION:
Is sin in silence
Still a sin?
DISCOURSE:
There was a time
When virtue was its own reward,
But, over the course
Of human interaction,
That concept seems to have
Acquired a variety
Of different interpretations,
As well as to have suffered
A noticeable decrease in value
As well as in popularity.
To sin is still,
And always will be,
A human prerogative,
But to keep it a secret,
Nowadays,
Is practically impossible.
CONCLUSION:
At all levels of society,
Too many have learned,
Too well,
The art of removing scruples,
The science of loosening the bonds
Of human conscience,
And have convinced themselves
That sin in silence
Is not a sin at all.
Come along retire, travel with me
Be my love in places we've not seen
We'll travel around the world our home
Roaming those valleys and mountains tall
Our love won't wane only grow__untame
We will have all our pleasures anew
Every moment treasure other
Whilst each day brings us new sunrises
Each one more glorious__ exciting
If these pleasures seem your heart to move
Come be my love in our latter life
In passage over the ocean blue
We'll travel see the world anew__dream
Dreams that our imagination schemes
(Parody of "The Passionate Shephard To His Love" by Christopher Marlowe (1564-
1593) for Dr. Ram's contest.)
I wish I was a tough guy
The kind you meet in books
Made of rock hard muscle
With rugged hard man looks
A Raymond Chandler hero
Exuding macho charm
A super spy or villain
With a beauty on each arm
I’d love to be the kind of guy
That others see and fear
The bane of every coppers life
I'd look at them and sneer
I might fall for a sucker punch
Get beaten up or more, but
I’d meet them face to face
And then, I’d even up the score
Wish I could be like Marlowe
And ooze testosterone
Women falling at my feet
For my heart as cold as stone
I would stand up to the bad guys
When I’d won, I’d get the dame
They would say “who was that tough guy”
I’d say “Rupert, that’s my name”
literature of the mind speaks to the thinking
brain crowded with a craving thought process
never forced never captured it flows throughout
the chemical imbalances within the mind craving
a sullen vocabulary to allow the thought process
to be eventually heard rather the writer is deaf
or mute the pages screams to be heard in order to
allow thought to dance across pages leaf's binderies
an yet unedited valued by the readers who are more
captivating by their own thinking skills during
the moment of meeting literature at a quiet calm
developing the overstood knowledge simply
drawing interest across a theater of thinking minds
why at the same time with only one concept wisdom
that is not just to read but to understand to interpret
what the writer is merely trying to express by gathering
thinkers to this grand meeting of the thinking mind
what is Marlowe
Something haunting about his voice.
Sorrowful, lingering around the edges.
I do not fully see him,
he is a grayscale blur, something elusive
The lyrics are lonely and sad.
His mother prayed him into existence,
he sings this as if he thinks it was an unhappy circumstance
Love for his father comes through
He claims loneliness, yet is it not self-imposed?
He wrote one hundred songs in his twenty-five years.
Was encouraged and coached by the Beach Boys
A little Iowa child, like me, born six months before I was
The last photo of Tommy taken back stage
made it into Rolling Stone Magazine.
He was big time, but may not have known it.
John Marlowe, of the Miami News said,
“Take care of yourself.”
He said, “Don’t worry. I will be here a long time”.
He died a few hours later
Heroine, cocaine, alcohol and barbiturates.
Something haunting about his voice.
The fancy degree from a world famous school
set in a frame that’s worth more
than the paper on which it’s printed
all the awards
the accolades
none of it has taught you
the lessons I learned long ago
before either of us could even read or had ever heard
of Shakespeare or Marlowe
Dickens or Carroll or Hemingway
when we were but larvae of what we would become
when you put on your first pair of patent leather shoes
polished to a high shine
before you toddled to the table for tea
at around the same time that half a world away
I slipped into my sandals
the straps hanging by a thread
the holes in the soles patched with duct tape
before sauntering into the kitchen
to spread mayonnaise or mustard or margarine
onto a single slice of stale bread
so I would have something in my stomach
to see me through until supper
which would consist of a can of some sort of beans
and a ten cent box of macaroni and cheese
with slices of cheap hot dogs stirred in
sometimes cut into quarters
when money was even more tight due to a medical bill
some other unexpected expense
You may be capable of convincing an audience
but you can never really know
You will never understand what that life is
Some things they can’t teach you at Cambridge
The End Stool
Always askew
As if occupants left quickly
Such is the life of the bar’s end stool
We’ve all noticed its isolation
Its paradoxical value as an observation point
The lighthouse warnings
Stay away from the rocks
Yes
End stools are special
Reserved for the aloof
Yet
Wanting the “more” of life
Like we who occupy the center
Will never know
End stool has a story
Ancient as Christopher Marlowe
Recent as Oliver Reed, Richard Burton, and Peter O’Toole
Contemporary as Bukowski
Think aloneness is desired?
Think not
Oneness without connection to another something is…
Such is the sadness of lives ended
Atop the End Stool
(On the morning of February 25, 1983, the great dramatist
Tennessee Williams was found dead in a New York hotel suite.
He had choked on the plastic cap of his eyedrops bottle, which
he habitually held in his mouth when applying the eyedrops.
The alcohol and pills he'd consumed suppressed his gag response.
This poem is (we are asked to imagine) the last thing he wrote,
a flurry of notes scribbled on hotel stationery.)
Why don’t I just go out and meet some bum?
for I confound hell in Elysium.
Romantic anonymity, just like
you’re lost out in the rain, Ciudad Juarez …
No human thing disgusts me, if it’s not
unkind, or violent.
I feel good, now.
I’m jacked up, and I’ve got my Seconal wind.
Where are you, Merlo? I’ve spent too much time
alone. We make decisions - is it will?
Well, character is fate. (Those eye drops. Damn,
where are they?) Walking out on Mom and Rose
was something which, although it had to be,
required a holy selfishness of me
that was spectacular.
The Rose Tattoo.
The only thing I wanted was to love –
was that too much to ask? Somebody’s Stella –
Stella for star. We muse too much on cruelty.
The pain’s no bane, so long as there is love.
Who cares what people say, after you’re gone?
I just wish I’d been lighter, funnier.
Camino, Orpheus, Sweet Bird of Youth:
they’re all so miserable – I’m not like that.
I think I’ll do a comedy named “Playwrights Dead”.
They always seem to go in silly ways!
There’s Hasek, Aeschylus and Ottoway,
and Orton, too. And Marlowe, most of all.
I need an epigraph that’s frivolous,
ironic, ludicrous, nonsensical.
(Ah, found my drops.)
In spite of all life’s dangers
If “proud”’s allowed, two things above the crowd
still clamor loud. I love the Texas Rangers,
and casual kindness, meted out by strangers.
He was alone and lonely.
Sadness swept his eyes
before he jabbed at me
with his cynical sarcasm.
He slowly lit his Camel.
It was a simple act of murder
and he was a scholar of sorts –
a player of chess, a fan of poetry.
I knew I was under his scrutiny.
I agree it looked rather suspicious.
After all, the body was there
and I was found holding the knife.
I squirmed under his hard eye
but leaned back into the chair
in front of his desk knowing
he had a soft spot for women.
A hard drinker, he took a bottle
from his cabinet and offered
a glass to me. I didn’t accept
as I knew I should stay alert.
“It was a man, a squabby man,
with a glimmer of glee in his eye,”
I said. “He looked at me, then
threw down the knife and ran.”
Marlowe said, “I don’t think you did it.
There was no blood on your clothes.
Your shoes would have soaked
in the blood and crusted.”
I relaxed a little and offered a smile.
I knew I was home free.
I was glad I had changed my shoes.
“I’ll take that drink now.”
She took the bait…
Inspired by but not entered in Natasha L Scragg’s Start Sleuthing Poetry Contest