THIS PLAY
I came to the play
in suffering
Hamlet this night
sure to be my guy
having pencilled him in
but no sooner ghost-talking
guards appeared on the parapet
then down in the audience
war broke out
between those who
swear by
William of Stratford, and
those who proclaim
a new king
by name of de Vere
sad that either way we
facing some
serious anonymity
which is hard for any writer
but perhaps par for
the greatness course
I am told these poor folks
put their whole
souls into it
and next time you scan
not a single bone remains
spiritual, symbolical, material
not a shred
of connecting evidence
it’s like the stuff
wrote itself or
ethereal hand
blessed the page
no chance here to debate
learning
versus innate craft, the role
pain played in it
of trace of the causality that
produced this irreplaceable shape
and there we are
watching, dreaming
as it
all goes down without us
pale reflection of being
perhaps not even
bridge
best we can be, bridge
broken or
magnificent
Hamlet
dead again
as always
In state of acute longing some suffering,
I came this play.
poems 2 die for 