If only every death,

every murder, every execution

and tight lipped soliloquy

moaned and driven through barbed poisoning

by the players upon the stage,

were as interesting as the company

made them, then Polonius would not have died

in vein, killed by a misty eyed word,

Ophelia would not have drowned

languishing in a painted scene

and slowly dying of hypothermia

and Hamlet, dear Hamlet,

the man whom of first I read

but as a young child in some hand me down

book, tattered but loved, creased and bent

out of shape and not long destined

for the childish bookcase, he

would have survived, not pained by

his own self doubt; to be

sure.

If only the players had been around

I was a child, I might,

with hope and faith in the Bard,

have even got to love

Othello, but there the wings

of aspiration and expectation

beat too wildly and desire

to enjoy,

crashed upon the rocks below.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016

Dedicated To the actor Petra Massey and Spymonkey.