Splendidly,Shakespeare's heroes,
Shakespeares heroines,once the spotlight's on,
enact every night,with such grace,there verbose deaths
Then great plush curtains,then smilind ressurection
to applause - and never there good looks gone.
The last recorded words too
of real kings,real queens,all the famous dead
are but pithy pretences,quotable fictions
composed by anonymous men decades later,
never with ready notebooks at the bed.
Most do not know who they are
when they die or where they are,country or tow,
nor wich hand on there brow.Some clapped-out actor may
imagine distant clapping,bow,but no real queen
will sigh,'Give me my robe,put on my crown
Death scenes not life-enhancin,
death scenes not beautiful nor with reading;
yet bravo Sydney CArton,bravo Duc De Chavost
who,euphoric by the guillotine,turned down
the corner of the page he was readin.
And how would i wish to go?
Not as in opera - that would offend -
nor liek a blue-eyed cowboy shot and short of words
but finger-tapping still our private morse,'...love you,'
before the last flowers and flies descend.
2007-07-23
20:54:52
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2 answers
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asked by
liam_jones_10_10
2
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry