To be alive or not to be,
Conception by the world’s Creator
Taken in stenography
By one of Avon, William Shakespeare
Tragedy, a life quill-written,
Dipped in blackest, deepest gall
Of English oak on floppy vellum,
Scratched and scrawled
At one end of a finished line
A period, a rounded splash,
The smallest part of God’s design:
Hamlet, prince, depressed and brash
Never would there be a script,
No Hamlet and his force of will,
Rage and pride, ambition clipped
Unless dictated to the quill
And if a microscope should peer
To amplify the tiny dot,
A ragged roundness would appear
Of that which is and which is not
And this is Hamlet, circumscribed
Within the action of a scene
That stretches out to all alive
And what is yet to be, has been
Very profound. I wouldn’t say I understand. Not Divine Widom channelled through him? Shakespeare the conduit. No, the last stanza I have FELT. The same sentiment as ‘there is nothing new under the sun’?
Would it be impertinent to put a poem her myself…I suppose so.
Hamlet
That’s why he’s so capricious,
He wants to show us how capacious his mind is.
That’s why he’s young, immature,
In love with his own being.
A capricious Narcissus,
Suspicious of Ophelia-
Playing the innocent.
He thinks all innocence fallacious.
He doesn’t express affection.
The love for his father is lacking.
Pillocking Polonious.
He doesn’t seem angry enough.
King Claudius is not nasty enough.
Is the Queen in collusion?
There’s something wrong with Hamlet.
What would Eliot know.