Long Othello Poems
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In the jumbled backyard of mind
they arrive in dark cowls,
gather behind an inverse eye,
wait there for the eyes themselves
to flip those images over into
a word chewing anger.
Manikins move in those shadows,
tussle in a muted violent parody
of action and reaction.
There is blood, it is dark,
it is cloudy.
War begins at the eyebrows,
mittens fumble
with small caliber ammo,
deadly enough but not explosive,
claws must grapple
beyond the roar of the pulse.
Suddenly you see her
not in her fury but yours;
storms subside into summer showers,
a mock performance of Othello
exits stage left, a shamefaced cast
comically admitting the farce.
"I am a fool
and I don’t deserve you."
Breast heaving, she turns away
to repaint her emotions
for a moment hating that she
loves you,
yet knowing she has won again
another blindfolded battle.
THE COMEDIANS’ TRAGEDY
My role is that of the Court Jester
also known as the Tudor Harlequin Clown,
I am much more than just a set of jokes
in front of audience members.
I wish to be a Shakespearean actor
but that is a fact nobody remembers.
To perform in tragedies,
to make the spectators not laugh but frown.
Anything from playing Romeo to Macbeth
while wearing his bloody crown!
The theatre life I want! Not the court life which is
as cold as the air in December.
I have tried time and time again but not prevailed.
I need to succeed by this new September.
I auditioned for many characters,
even Lady Macbeth while wearing her bloody gown!
At last, a new audition has come
up for a new Shakespeare play!
If I fail, what shall
I do hereafter?
After acting my heart out for the audition,
my mouth turned to the taste of morello.
To hear what I had been cast as that day;
am I bound to a life of laughter?
I find myself playing the
Clown from the tragedy of Othello…
This remorse is choking me to death,
taking away all the livable breath...
leaving guilt, anguish, and wrath:
am I another insane Macbeth?
If hours slowly pass making me restless,
and through rageful images
I despise when waking up with screams:
what's their symmetry to eternity?
Much worse are the innate dreams
never imagined having fragility!
There's a young storyteller with auburn curls
who comes from the medieval town of Arthun
narrating tragedies of inseparable lovers,
who died before their given time;
he sits on a bench of the small square
that depicts the sensuality of a nude siren
laying in the middle of a stone fountain
and spewing outflowing water, she entices sensuality!
I won't attempt to fling a silver dime
in its water showing an emotional valence,
but with prudence, I'll toss it gladly and gallantly!
Since I have no luck and an unpredictable future,
his tragedies seem sympathetic to an extent;
I won't be pierced by a blade to prove I'm faithful,
I won't lay in a tomb besides my adored lady...
the times of faithfulness have ceased to exist,
finding a true one among thousands of women who care
is such a rarety, they once were found in a monastery
and their desire was to be the bride of Christ,
and they always kept a holy image never being disgraceful!
If someone is being tormented by constant remorse
for a fault which wasn't his own attempt to contemplate revenge,
or the cruel intent of harming someone without a hint of knowledge,
then he should cleanse himself thoroughly of the false belief
and continue living without idiocy until he overcomes his grief,
not exiling himself on a deserted island and suffer the worse:
neither should I who has isolated himself and writes in pathetic rhyme
avoiding to compare himself to Othello who repented for his heinous crime!
Whom do I resemble most: Othello or Macbeth?
One had dark skin, the other had fair skin,
wasn't their vile character wrecked by sin?
They were murders stripped of moral and worth!
To the man who cheered my childhood idleness
When want of money seized the Mario Bros from me.
To the man who planted in me the seed of madness
To string words like multi-coloured beads to see
Some hidden truth, to say some itchy sadness,
To display the velvet waves of a grassy plane in some wilderness.
I remember “Et tu Brute” impressed on that page
Of beautiful poetry you wove into a thickening web.
Enthralled by this beauty, the Muse had me in a cage
And soon out of my own tottering pen, I would be a deb.
The Sonnets, Othello, Twelfth Night, Hamlet: my pleasant voyage
Into the Land of Words till sunlight to the horizon would ebb.
To the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon on your birthday
To the speculation on the dictionary whence
You spun your magic and awed many in and beyond your day,
To the father of the deepest yet saddest romance:
The bitter tale of hatred to which Romeo and Juliet fell prey:
We miss your plume pouring life onto our every sense.
(c) Nyonglema
Various Heresies 12
God Had a Plan
by Michael R. Burch
God had a plan
though it was hardly “divine.”
He created a terror:
Frankenstein.
He blamed death on man:
was that part of the plan
so hard to define,
or did he just cut his losses?
Now sleepless he tosses
hearing the screams,
the wild anger and fear
of men in despair.
"Just disappear!,"
he cries to himself
on his fearful bed,
tearful, afraid
of those he misled.
Ah-men!
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
Keywords/Tags: Heresy, Heresies, God, religion, religious, christian, Jesus, divine plan, death, man, men, screams, anger, fear, despair, Divine Plan
for clarity, you may want to read the footnotes
the mute swan's song
has an ambiance
where motion moves naught
it hovers in an existence
where time becomes meaningless
lighting is aloof, a halo shining down
the white bed becomes a herald of angels
ready to move as the song fades
into Empyreal Heights never to return
lights dance in the mind
racing from red to blue into green
the machines are performing
appointed tasks, measuring vitals
in their ending throes
wires and tubes feeding each moment
a record of the battle
as life succumbs to the inevitable
your eyes are closed
breathing has become shallow
holding your hand, grasping at life
adding each precious moment
to a memory long embedded in happiness
we grew into this silence, holding hands
lost in a simple joy of each other's company
when our souls existed as one
i look up and the breathing has ceased
she is free of this mortal coil
i bury my tears into her hand
the lights are blue, red, and green
have gone silent
rising to my feet i bend to kiss her
whisper into her ear
please take me with you
Sweet Swan of Avalon, sing now for me
let your quill mark my wish in grief
please take me with you
life is an endless tide
that holds us within its laws
caught within the flood current
we have no power over its ebb
there exists no safe harbor
free from the tidal laws
mother's thoughts on this were
mourn a day and return to the plow
life is about the living
whose last whisper into her ear
please take me with you
OKC 9/22
The term “swan song” comes from the belief that Mute Swans (Cygnus olor) were completely silent until the last few moments of their life, when they would sing a beautiful song. Although this is an ancient myth and was proven to be false, as far back as 77A.D., the legend has lived on and the term swan song has become mainstream.
Shakespeare himself frequently featured this bird in his writing and was given the epithet “Sweet Swan of Avon.” He remarked that, although it was mute, it sang its swan song when ready to die. In act 8 of his play Othello, she was remorseful to similarly remark, “I will play the swan and die in music. “
. for public domain
All Too Well*
Come, my Love and marry me.
A faithful man I'll be.
A family fine for all to see,
some children, you, and me.
"Oh, no." she calmly me replied,
"Your eye yet wanders wide.
Your soul is tethered as to the tide
comes and goes." she sighed.
For Love knew me all too well,
and so I took to sea.
I shook busy docks in seaside ports,
unloved, and angry me.
Wearily, I sought me home,
my back turned to the foam,
and pledged no more to wander and roam,
no more the sea to comb.
Wealth, and riches, gathered I,
a lifetime of supply,
yet never have I heard my child cry,
mourn by my Love's bedside.
* alluding to Othello, "Of one that loved not wisely but too well",
ACT V SCENE II
William Shakespeare's plays, as most people know
have been around for four hundred years or so.
The Bard wrote plays that were comedies.
He also composed works that are tragedies.
"Twelfth Night" and "As You Like It" are in the former category.
"Romeo and Juliet" would be considered a tragedy.
Both kinds of plays were written with great quality.
"Hamlet", "Julius Caesar", "Othello" and "King Lear"
are what most folks prefer, it would appear.
This makes me want to ask: "what's going on here?"
Preference for tragedies I cannot see;
especially with all the shootings in the news recently.
Over "Macbeth", I like "Much Ado About Nothing".
In the end, all the characters dance and sing.
Two couples get married, and wedding bells ring.
Oh how wonderful it is to have a happy ending!
Nobody gets killed, and everything turns out nice.
Doesn't anybody here like to throw rice?
Inspired by Shakespeare's works and the 1960 hit song "Let's Think About Living" by the late Bob Luman.
Flora caught some fireflies
in her little jar one night.
She once caught some butterflies,
but they did not glow as bright.
She also caught cicadas,
and she housed them in a tin;
in the night, they made a buzz,
which was a terrible din.
Spiders, too, she kept at home
and she named them Jeb and Deb,
around her room, they would roam
stop in corners, make a web.
She once kept a little worm,
a squiggly little fellow,
that made her mother squirm,
she named this one Othello!
Flora kept all creepy things
even once a bumbly bee.
In the end, they all had wings;
as each morn, she set them free.
When I read Othello with my child’s eyes, I saw a master’s artistry at work;
Foul, devil plots, a hopeless love, a monster created but refused.
Victims and sinners alike debased, I saw worlds crushed and a giant fall.
Convinced of character and poetic muse, I was led through vague words to light passages.
When I read Othello with my adult eyes, I saw an artist bargaining with his theme;
His faceless blocks moved to a sympathy Mass,
Searching for learning I found divested acts, all meaning and diversity consumed;
My awareness full, so was I then led back and the subject failed.
As I reflect the reading of Othello: two journeys made, one path to follow;
A world was opened through my child’s eyes, for adult eyes to swallow.