In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of sex with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for sex with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The Negro of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The Negro bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
Wench, clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Don't mourn a shallow grave if it's what I prefer
I want to feel winter as it cools the skin of the earth
So I can feel Lucifer churn my ground from his sorrow of going astray
To feel the pulsing of the sun, while no more a witness unto the day
"Shallow Grave" -JP
And so here today I say goodbye
at your graveside in the rain
all the mourners they have gone now
its just you and me again
The scars of your sudden passing
no-one will ever see
like a thousand shards of glass
driven deep inside of me
The only evidence of you being here
is the unmade bed you left behind
And memories of the love we made
and of our bodies intertwined
So many things will go unsaid
so many dreams go unfulfilled
So many rooms are darker now
That you lights not there to fill
My world is much more empty now
without your gentle grace
As I close my eye's the tears come
at the memory of your face
I wish I could have been there
to be with you at the end
To cradle you within my arms
my lover and my friend.
Our time together was our secret
and one that will be kept
None will ever know the "other man"
at your graveside stood and wept.
i am much
all the hard work
that goes into raising
i have found
the bitter-sweet courage
to say that
i love you
i love you now
more the anyhting and
here i am
your flesh and blood
at you graveside now
where I am
suppose to be
dust to dust
ashes to ashes
now my heart
be filled with thee
Savory sense to ease my worry
Walked in the mist, mild with fury
Graveside scene, eerily silent
Souls of the dead speak out in violence
Mind numbed feelings, frozen with fear
Take the next step, not going near
Hair stands on end, weak at the knees
Black cat crossed, begging you please
Lay down and listen, whispers at night
Can't close my eyes, a moment I might
Rust broken gate, iron wrought ring
Shhh do you hear? The dead starts to sing
In the shadows rose the gallows,
his execution date drew near.-
Wolfe Tone, denied a soldiers ‘death,
could not hold life that dear.
He took a blade to his own throat
and cut a swathe of red.
It’s said he lingered but a week
then brave Wolfe Tone was dead..
He was the father of desire
for an Ireland brave and free.
Desire famine could not kill
nor emigration flee.
He choose the manner of his death.
He did not die a slave.
It put his life in context-
His words transcend the grave
Each year on the day he died
as long as Wolfe’s lived there
They lay a spray of roses
on his graveside in Kildare..
What once was warm and welcome
Is now but distant cold and silent death.
But the setting of a friendships sun
Not quite as yet a souls dying breath.
Up in arms and marching forward
There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight
Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward
And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight.
From cradles and cots
When were we supposed to learn
That parking lots and graveside plots
Were our only future to discern.
And just like all of those bedroom eyes
friendship itself also often dies.
I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.
I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...
I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.
I'd call you
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.
Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.
I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.
But twenty-two months is a long time.