No - I Am Not Prince Hamlet, Nor Was Meant To Be
Pray, my lord, says the priest. ‘Tis sweet balm for the soul,
and he, he sees yours-
Lord, I hope not- you think.
‘O! there are spirits of the air!’
a poet will write centuries after they give you your soldier’s burial
so when you turn to gaze into the face of the Holy Father
you know it to be true
know that father is not holy but damned to burn, burn,
burn.
Love: King-Father and Queen-Mother on twin thrones
and then, a girl, voice like the honey-dawn of May Morning,
her hands spilling with the roses that now tip into your lap-
(later you ask ‘shall I lie in your lap?’, this not honey
but biting betrayal, and she will learn each flower's name
to replace this echoing in her head)
-yes, love,
until
you find yourself next to him under the guise of dissecting Plato and Diogenes,
and see not a cave or a man alone but for a barrel
only him, his furrowed brow of thought,
a window to a world whose gates are barred.
There are more things in heaven and earth/Than are dreamt of
in your philosophy.
This might be one of them.
What are you? -heir caught between two kings.
Mother a harlot queen twice-crowned- you a prince
whose lady made her wedding bed in
the slumbering roll of a river.
You speared a rat on the end of your rapier, got him good,
thought it might part the faces of father and uncle and
god
that blur in your head.
Remember me. Revenge me.
They don’t sound so different, not when
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatch’d,
yet you can’t help but wonder which will be left to you
after the blood will out.
What are you? - but battling for your soul.
Remember me means the dead are for the past-
which, as it happens, is no undiscover’d country.
This duel, these boys clapping iron pokers together
has not traitor or murderer or god at the other end, has instead
a mirror, a translation of you, brittle fury and justice brimming
over into something self-destructive.
You think, when did this become a play, all of us doubled?
You think, I’ll be your foil, Laertes- and spring forward to match him.
The unholy father has no mercy upon our souls.
Adulterate beast and most seeming virtuous queen he reaps for his harvest,
remember me a lie, a curse-
And- he is the only one not of us an actor,
he alone has the strength to recall his philosophy,
to bear you in his arms and vow that he is just a little way behind,
moments from felicity.
In this dimming world only his face is lit.
Absent thee, to tell my story.
That this is I, Hamlet the Dane-
And the rest is silence.
Copyright © Etin Arcadiaego | Year Posted 2020
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