I have played many parts. The glove maker’s son

from Warwickshire suggested I should.

I have played the illusionist who laid upon the bed of nails

and who doted silently for his clown. I have played the clown

in the art of allusion, the fool, unseen like Lear’s imagination,

the part suiting me well; but thankfully, I never performed

a role like the court jester, slapping his masters on the back

but with the cunning engrained into the psychotic fancy to

remove a king from his throne or the down at heel

from his last piece of inedible, crustless bread with a rusty knife.

 

I have played the clown on stage, the foil to the joke

that I didn’t get, the stooge, the fall guy and the hated man

to the joke I understood far too late. I have played with a smile

the martin between mouthfuls and the wren hating the worm,

the short lived Scottish King, a great grandfather removed, the friend,

the enemy, once of my own choosing,

twice by design. I have played the token woman, been one girl’s Morrison,

the poet and the salesman with a bigger smile than the fool

whispering and chattering away inside Lear’s head,

only seen in shadow, the voice, stateless and unabridged.

 

I have played the lover, by my own admission, one who failed

at every crucial scene and no leading man am I.

I have kissed like a girl, taught as I was by women

who liked their own company and I have prayed with satisfaction

like a priest at every nun’s sacramental altar.

I have played the witness, cards in hand in the dock

and sent down judgement upon the killers

of the boy who died in my arms in a crowded market place

but one who calls out to me in nightmares.

I have played my own demise, the hangman and the assassin.

 

Many roles, many lives and yet I still despise you

for being content for playing the crocodile for whom Time

is but a heartbeat and the villain of my story.

I have never played Monday but excelled as Wednesday

with damnation in my soul, I have been an advocate and peace maker

but there is no harmony with you still breathing

deeply, far too real the Fool

as I age like Lear, bitter and full of vented cat-box spleen.

I have been King March in my life and woke up as the beauty of May

and understood that no man graces the black willow skirts of December.

 

I have worn the clothes of drowned rats

and crossed boundaries in search of myself.

I have played the temper, the drive, the insane and the wit;

many success and rave reviews but none have I enjoyed.

I have played you, I have been you and adored being you,

I have wanted to be like you and have tried to tell you

as I held your hand but the Fool is invisible

and December is not for me in truth

but May, she is a wonder.

I will be the uncorseted May,

for February and the Fool never existed but in my head.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.