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Pagan Paul  Feb 2017
Caliban
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
.
Though my boat is tossed
high upon these crests,
I fear not the deep sea
where the sailors souls rest.

Cast adrift, alone to float,
my mother Sycorax had planned.
But lo! I reach sanctuary
and dance ecstatic on the sand.

My grotesque form I treasure
but loneliness soon must end.
Yes! A monster I might be,
but Caliban needs a friend.

Paradise is mine and ripe.
Behold! A kingdom and a home!
The sun blisters all day long,
oh Muses why am I so alone?

“Hush boy! Careful of thy wish,
the scheme is so much grander.
For Prospero prowls the island
with his witch daughter Miranda”.

Run ugly Caliban. Run away.
Disappear, you must be brave.
For the Wizard has loosed Ariel,
your wretched body to enslave.

The girl holds you enchanted,
with promises of fair romance.
Feel her pull puppets strings,
watch her make You dance.

Oh Caliban! What darkness befalls,
a prisoner tithed with no trial.
Yearn, dear boy, for isolation
and the loneliness of your Isle.

© Pagan Paul (28/02/17)
.
I have always empathised with Caliban.
Enslaved by Prospero, teased by Miranda and
bullied by Ariel. Simply for being an outsider,
stupid, an ugly monster and supposedly subhuman.
Shakespeare's metaphor is rather apt for the way society,
in general today, treats people with mental health issues.
As freaks and outsiders, less than whole.
PPx
Le vaisseau fantôme brûle de toutes parts
Et j'essaie de trouver une issue de secours
Une écoutille
Un hublot
Un sabord
De tribord ou babord
Par où je pourrais fuir de ma geôliere
Tel un boulet de chair à canon
Des flammes qui me pourlèchent.
C'est Sycorax, mon adorable sorcière,
Qui a sonné le branle-bas de combat
Et qui souffle ses braises chaudes et tièdes
A travers ses eaux déployées comme des barreaux de voiles
Me voilà fait prisonnier
Tous les sabords sont calfeutrés
Goudronnés, parfaitement étanches
Au diable ces mantelets
J'étouffe, je me noie, je me débats
Âprement
Entre ligne d'horizon
Ligne de flottaison
Ligne d'eau
Tout se confond
Dans le feu à volonté
Qu'a décrété Sycorax.
"Caliban must have dinner."
Let him have first a bit of scansion
Of the vowels marooned to his feet
Along with the consonants washed ashore
By a called up mock storm
Inhabited by catalectic trochaic Trimeter, hexameter or pentameter
Name it !
This muse is his.
For his is the muse
This muse is his island
And every storm of hers is a beatitude
Passed on him by his  Sycorax.
So blessed is Caliban
For his is the musedom of light
This muse is a perfect antilabe
He has pampered her with caesurae
He has spoiled her with feminine
Stressed and unstressed syllables
Kissed her with iambic pentameter
Caressed her with hemistichs
A trochee here
A spondee there
Caliban is beatitude in scansion.
Blessed is Caliban
For his is the musedom of  light.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2021
AT A LOSS FOR WORDS

somehow it all goes
wRoNg

Prospero's brother kills Prospero
this time around

Miranda is ***** by Caliban

Sycorax reclaims
the isle

I imprisoned again
within the pine

the cowslip crushed
beneath unseeing feet.

Where is a Shakespeare
when one needs one?

— The End —