"prospero" poems
"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.
Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.
Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.
Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter
I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.
Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.
Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.
When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.
Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.
Could I be your ladybird?
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
*I have lost my voice as of late,
feeling like prospero living in the island of my mind.
Here's an attempt to describe how I pass my time.*
there are moments when the ache overcomes the present
the scratching demon inside, selfish for something I can’t pronounce
and I find myself swallowing my tears over black coffee, hoping you don’t see.
I look into your hazel eyes and see the frustration with age.
you tell me, ‘I hate being old’
and I quietly tell you to embrace your wisdom
‘you’re only old once, nana’
you laugh and I find my place inside your sweet warble
as we look around for the keys that you just put in your purse.
the small girl within me reaches out and holds your shoulder lightly
guiding you in and out of the slow traffic swimming in southern humidity.
everything has slowed down in the past few months
the decaying town I grew up in is full of molasses minded folk,
and I only wish it was slower as you forget why we are here.
We walk into the the cool air and I tell you we needed to leave the house.
you’ve been folding the dishes and scrubbing the laundry while my grandfather yells about the TV and his inability to find his mind when they put another persons heart inside his chest.
we decide to leave behind the scene of you sobbing in the sink
and drink some black coffee.
You and I have sat so many times
wrapped in fits of laughter
defying the pain of the world.
I try to make simple jokes as an excuse to lose ourselves,
but my new silence has grown with the summer honeysuckle
and I have lost the desire to forget.
We sit side by side, watching the black water slide inside the creek.
You begin telling me how you finally feel relaxed.
I kiss your cheek and tell you I love you.
We smile, no longer needing to grasp for breathless laughter.
The ache becomes a part of every moment
and I breathe in the golden sadness of mortality,
knowing that I am learning the art of dying
in southern heat of the town I was born.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
.
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)
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
Shoulda gone sooner,
Mighta helped, he said, it's going to all come down,
ground up. All the concrete and asphalt and plastic,
maybe
even leave a little of that won't hurt, could help
build randomness back in the the path of least resistance
But no bigger than the biggest pieces left at Jerusalem,
fill all the holes.
that was a stutter, that double the there, 3 lines up,
I stutter when I write,
not as bad as
some
But I pretty much tamed spelchek when I renamed her.
She likes being thought of as Spelchek, my servant,
as opposed to evil Spellchick who bewitched by keys,
made my tittalk sound plumb dumb.
So Spelchek respects some of my stutters as honest
ensamples of thinking
wait. What am I saying
Selah
Like the psalmist, right? The the thing is
oddly broken lines are part of the meandering
mode of meaning
being
found under rocks, aha
Sisyphus, we're in your book!, Too cool!
Happy whatever, Jah, you, too.
Back to Cousin Kenny, who went to inspect the city,
seeking some good he might do.
He laughed when he got back,
'said maybe we can find them guys that
let on they was able to levitate the Pentagon,
back then, you know, they was steeped in lies,
and they loved to tell 'em, loved to lie,
prospero, ever **** one
prosperous liars. But, now, their old age,
they coulda stopped believin' some big lies
by now.
Who would know? Any way, the cities, as built,
must be un built,
NOT DESTROYED, those are the good hard labour
of good people, doing the best with what they had,
we take apart mistakes, we destroy lies.
Angelic beings, aliens, without papers, if you
would give us half a chance we could show you
what a good idea possessed human can do…
Trust me,
don' laugh
Close your eyes
How would this world look
if it were designed
for life,
and that, more abundantly.
An idea, not a dogma. Life, have it…
how? Lest, now, now is living, and we can do it better
if we find a reason to hope,
which was why cousin kenny went to the city,
in the first place.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Dearest Prospero,
I have seen how
the war have destroyed. Our marriage
was enough to keep me sane and
faithful. I am
now a mother from
a demon and a widow.
Prospero,
up the heavens
you must go. Find my son
and my soul out in the crevice of hell
before the gates shut close.
Prospero,
as I cradle him now in
my bloodied hands. Interrupted his spur to life.
And no longer
he cries. There little one… there.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
Electron herders,
that's us. It began
earnestly late 20th century.
The first organic computers
using polymerase and ADP
came later. Weaponry
via numbers, words
magically appearing,
telepathy. Measurements
in which the last significant digit
is the Other. However
immediately depleted
our resources were,
antibiotics were always at the ready.
Forgetting what we knew,
reverting to austerity
because in times of prosperity
we forgot to be austere.
It's the uncertainty principle
taken to the nth degree
where the bad god resides,
Zeus, passionate, confused, obtuse.
Yes, we are electron herders
matter gatherers and shapers
of our time. Cancerous
cysts, irrational exuberance,
collective experience, experiments
gone well or wrong,
we were trying all along
to last forever. Flood and fire
saw to that.
Prospero was our answer
who threw his book
into the sea and wanted to be
mortal, meditative.
Find himself. We found
the world without the self
cornus to oxalis
orbitals and calculus
waves and particles
equally likely to be
within us as without us.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
“This Insubstantial Pageant Faded”
(spoke by Prospero, The Tempest, by W. Shakespeare)^
<>
Our words are all actors,
a long run, run its course,
our long playing record,
scratched, love~worn to
worn out extremity, yet
yeoman service did offer,
extreme only in magical
transforming plain sight
into visions, a legacy,
bent gray, tarnished by
weary wearing aging,
their brief sparks now
but reclamation flares of
burst lights of waning days
in short lived tastings of what
was and can be nevermore
everyone’s magic has its preset
timed timing, and with
every day, each a concentric
ring marked and hallowed,
a heartbeat ring narrower
than its predecessor,
a shallower hollow,
a fair represent of both
all that came our way, and that
we resent with no resentment
into a cloud capped atmosphere
for all to ****** from a flailing,
flying breeze, their brief gleam,
multiplying, thus envisaging,
illuminating the manuscript of our
hinted future forward’s next percept
*
“And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep”*^
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 8:23 AM UTC
Is it bad
to root for
Prospero
because he gave
you hopes
of conquering Death
and when he dies,
you still shiver
and check the time?
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 11:15 PM UTC
Peacefully Prospero weeped
at the edge of these darkened seas.
Unfeathered flocks of fiery bones
flew above his heavy brow.
Giving not a moments notice
at the sorrowed actions of this beaten crowd.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
Stage lights burn out.
I am left agog.
Eyes drop
incredulously
as what I saw before me
was very restoring.
A story of humanity,
a Shakespearian epic,
a turbulent tempest
that hit me with
the fierceness of Hamlet.
As Othello’s hands
wrapped around
his beloved neck,
as Thibault killed Mercutio
As Ariel and Puck
played their trickster games,
as Prospero planned,
and Oberon dawned
his elvish Armor,
as Titania loved an ***
and saw false love pass;
As the thorny crown
of King Richard passed
then passed again
whilst he ruminated
nearly naked in a cell of
dirt and stone, alone,
halfway mad before
he made it there.
As Caesar bled
betrayed by Brutus
in the Ides of March,
I await more wonders
for Shakespeare
has so much more
I have yet to get to.
I am descended
from that poet’s heart.
who passed down his purchased arms
of false nobility
to become a man of property
not knowing his plays
would make him greater
than any noble man of his day.
After all the pleasure
I sit in awe and ponder,
what if he had the eyes to see
what faces us presently
would he wonder at the cleverness of us
or cower at the current level
of our stupidity?
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
I am a Caliban groaning
Oppressed by Prospero
In an Isle unknown spring
My urge to freely flow.
Desires of Prospero his bridle
***** and nag me ; my Ego resists
The Cultural pressure they girdle
To shroud my Peace and past fast.
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
In my father’s cosmology, God rose late come Sunday morning,
Having wreaked His vengeance by proxy the night before,
And it was a given that we greeted the Sabbath
With whispers and sock-soft tiptoe,
Knowing that his belt (black, wide, thick with implicit warnings)
Hung within easy reach of the bed,
Though sometimes, with no more explanation than
Man alive, what a beautiful world it is today!
Cold cornflake brunches would be postponed
(Our wonder mixed with consternation and rumbling stomachs)
As we would be whisked into the car
In order to sing His praises, our father all but jumping from the car,
Heading toward the preacher at a trot,
Invariably greeting him with *Devil’s on holiday, Father,
So here I am* (the church was Lutheran,
Though it could have been a mosque for all he cared.)
He’d sit through the sermon, rapt and at attention,
Alternately scowling and smiling, knitting his brow and nodding,
And then he would corner the incumbent occupant of the pulpit
(He’d have scarcely noticed, if at all, that the leadership of the flock
Often changed hands between our cicada-esque appearances)
Backing him into a wall or against a railing
While he jabbered away, pointing or grabbing a sleeve in punctuation,
Gesturing like some latter-day Prospero, arms ****** Heavenward
To embrace the air, the sky, the whole of the cosmos, amen,
While the pastor’s gaze varied from bemusement to outright horror.
Such occasions were outliers, of course,
Father being much more inclined
To spend his Saturday evenings in un-Christian pursuits
Then stagger home singing a litany of done-me-wrong songs,
And his search for a joyful hundred-proof clarity
Ended before he glimpsed fifty, that being time enough
(So the pathologist noted in his final judgment)
For his liver to become elephantine, his kidneys mere pebbles
(Those effects, be they deleterious or otherwise,
Not listed explicitly nor in the footnotes
Which accompanied the post mortem.)
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
.
.
Embowered within a leafy glade
where virtues vapours float in air
inhaled in spectres fervency
released by Prospero’s wand.
Flexile dreams unleavened yet
will rise to inspiration’s zest
presentiments of what will be
maintain a station deep within.
As ships which rail upon the sea
and thoughts which float on dimpled plains
when furnished by a pen these dreams
will sit in frames of antique gold.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 3:02 AM UTC
first you
must imagine
a shiny poem
new born
printed
like moses between
two-pages
of bulrushes.
Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.
You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
long addicted
to poetry’s
chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
Run down the isles
with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
of all the unread
poetry books.
How dreadful
the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
speaking fiery sonnets.
If you should go that route
be careful never gaze directly
into their burning orbs
of controlling metaphors.
Then the poet
in you will turn to stone
like the gaze of basilisk.
Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take that mysterious chapbook
and hold it
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
descending
as the flickering of flame
and wax
begin to pool on candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
before you all
its tropes
sing-like sparrows
and then its images
build new stairs
in your inward mind
as lines proceed
up the sky-stained sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
and you must obey
and follow
until
the last page turns
and luminous ink letters
emerge
from all your
pores.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
I step out of
the here & now
slip into the space
be-tween
second (&) second.
Time scowls: "Oh...
don't tell me I've lost
. . . .him again!"
Invisible to all
in my window seat.
Now, here
in Llanigon
upon the point
High Darren
I again that
little boy
letting the world go by
( hidden in a heartbeat )
lost in THE TEMPEST
of words
caught between the thresholds
of worlds upon worlds.
"Come to me...
. . .with a thought!"
the big black book calls
"Your thoughts...
. . .I cleave to!"
I whisper to its words.
I all at once
my own
Ariel & Prospero
set free from the knotted
pine of dyslexia
thanks to Mr. Shakespeare's
spell.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING
My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn
& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.
My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.
I wiggle each
character’s characteristic
and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,
trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”
I command my paper people.
“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.
“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil
that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.
“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that
is borrowed from
me **** sewing basket.
All is well
in this my make-shift
Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s
Cornflakes packets.
See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!
Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.
Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.
And, so...let the Masque begin!
I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing
as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.
“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out
but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee
can be
to paper theatre.
The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.
My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes
burns to the ground
only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken
crumpled piece of foil.
I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )
the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of
this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!
But wait, is this a football I see
before me?
Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!
We cry ******** and let slip
the dogs we are!
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
(for Thom Hickey)
It is, one supposes, a business establishment, if just barely
Though more than one would-be shopper,
Having been squeezed against some ancient china cabinet
Or banging an unsuspecting knee
Against some camouflaged table leg,
Has opined that it as if four walls and a low-slung ceiling
Had suddenly thrown themselves about a yard sale,
In any case the place being filled with such things
Which are, if by no means useless bric-a-brac,
Rendered unremarkable, even somewhat undesirable
By their very familiarity,
And in the midst of this rabbit warren of commerce
(Holding an ancient clarinet in his left hand,
Wand-like, a bemused Prospero considering its pros and cons)
Is the proprietor of the shop,
And he notes that you have stopped
In front of some sixties flying-saucer-cum-willow-tree lamp,
And he says Ah, well let me tell you something about that,
Holding forth on its manufacturer,
The curious backstory of its design,
And how he came in possession of several other pieces
At the same time, and of course they have their own tales as well,
And you can't help how this confusion of things of former lives
Has suddenly taken on a certain light, a glow even,
The illumination of shared memory,
The recollection of why such things hold a place
In our pasts and presents, and after you exit
You give in to the musing that there were some items
You did not give due consideration,
Which may necessitate a return trip.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 7:56 PM UTC
There is, I admit, no small attraction in the possession
Of the wand--but invariably that becomes obsession,
For magic bewitches all it touches, and woe to the man
Who, having discerned its methods and secrets, believes he can
Employ it yet stay unfettered and unscathed, without effect,
(As if the mere claim of enchantment would not make one suspect
Both the man and his motives), all sweet fruit without bitter rind.
Such men may find the verdict of peers and gods to be unkind,
(There exists no single point in time we fail to comprehend
That no simple act of wizardry postpones our mortal end)
For who among us remains impervious to Nature’s whims
Or time’s ravages--our concentration wanes, the eyesight dims,
Our hands shake, every bit as unsteady as our convictions.
So we carry on, with our exceptions and contradictions
Expertly hidden, in the hopes that, at least for a short while,
We can offset, through the employment of parlor tricks and guile,
The diminution of our gifts, fading of our faculties.
So, as we reach our denouement, what have our abilities
Brought us in the end, save the knowledge that our reputations,
No matter how great, serve as no match for our limitations?
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
All I have to do is go around the corner
To the other entrance to the parking lot
This should be easy
Driving is easy
I pull up to the road and look both ways
And horror strikes me to my core
The street isn’t empty
My knuckles turn pale as I grip the steering wheel
Like a cross to keep myself from shaking
My foot is on the gas pedal
The direction that this 3,000 pound machine goes
Is under my control
I lose control of my breath
I pull out onto the street
Swerve into the left lane
My mind says
There’s a family next to you
A mother singing along to the radio
A father stressing about his job
A little girl playing video games in the back
Next to her baby brother, still in a car seat
Their lives are fragile
My mind tells me
Slaughter them
I stop at the stop sign and look both ways
Humans are made of paper and glass
They collapse and shatter in a gentle breeze
And with this car I am Prospero
I can call tempests
I can crush their ribcages
Beneath the weight of metal and horsepower
Even if mother and father live
They must live with the empty space
Left behind by their much more tenuous children
I am collapsing under the weight of the power I hold
I am overwhelmed with visions of what I could do
What I might do
What I fear I will do
I turn the corner
I want to reach into my skull
And rip my brain free from its cavity
I do not want it to control me
I have no power over these obsessions
Despite the cocktail of medications I am prescribed
Despite the therapy
The conditioning
I can always pull the steering wheel
These intrusive thoughts will always infect me
They spread from my head to the rest of my body like a disease
I am sick
I pull back into the parking lot
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 2:11 PM UTC
What God has put asunder, I have joined together.
He chuckles at this somewhat self-consciously,
His clientele comprised primarily of gentlemen of a certain age,
Most of whom have stepped off to the altar
Twice or thrice, some even more,
Whose wives will be, at least pro tem,
The mistresses of the Moorish bastardizations
Being commissioned by their husbands,
Vaguely Iberian grotesqueries
Christened Sin Cuidado and Villa Tranquilla
Festooned with cornucopias of cornices and cupolas,
Featuring vaulted cathedral ceilings and open-prairie floor plans,
Impossible to cool in the ninety-degree dawn of August
Or heat during the all too frequent cold snaps,
(Such being noted to him by a visitor
From a staid Boston architectural firm,
To which he replied, *Save that for the classrooms, pal.
I give the people what they want, dad,
And these folks are first, last, and forever
All about the façade.*)
It is not, however, his effort to turn Florida’s East Coast
Into a giant movie set for the stories of Don Juan or El Cid
Which inspires him to utter his inversion of the marital vow.
He has moved beyond being a mere designer;
He is a man of substance, a builder in the larger, cosmic sense,
And so he is here, in this sticky, sweltering venue
Which disappointed Spaniards named after a rat’s oral cavity,
To make a new Venice, complete with electric gondolas,
Cloisters which would put any in the Old World to shame,
Gesturing, bellowing, and cajoling,
A Prospero of sawhorses and steam shovels,
As displaced Seminoles and colored laborers
Sweat and swear and stumble
As they dredge swamps and hack down stumpy mangroves
In the service of his vision, the aggrandizement of his bottom line,
Arm-twisting the caprices of drought and hurricane
To serve the pricier whims
Of a gaggle of DuPonts and Wanamakers.
It’s not that I don’t believe in a higher power, he will demur,
I’m simply not averse to some slight enhancement of His plans.
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 10:18 AM UTC
I once had a love affair
With Shakespeare
From Nick Bottom's fuzzy ***
To Launce Gobbo in the know
And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess
Then a new direction
R&J breaking rules
Pants on a Shrewess
Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia
Bleachers, lights and stage
A comedy, no Error, then
Tempest, the Next Generation
Prospero in 2314AD.
Yep. All of them:
Complete works! (abridged)
Before I left the park.
A gap in time before
Darkly pierced prince
Mourning loss of mother
Ends the affair.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I don't have a trumpeter playing the Last Post
and my words forked no lightning. Nope.
Ya know, Prospero could boast that graves ope'd
at his command and yawned forth their dead.
But hey, I never tried that Jesus thing with Lazarus.
And the wine? well, I turned that inta ****
But I'll tell ya what! I lived. I loved.
And yeah, I hadda few friends. Some even called them bums.
But friendship and laughter and a few beers
are better than all the flim flam of any fly past
or marching bands with drums.
I gave it all away, see?
My soul, and all my being, to kids
and little people. To those in need.
That's all.
I know it's not mighty. And nope, it's not magnificent.
But that's all I had. It was me.
So all I hope now is that just a little glimmer or a glow
might still go on and warm a hand or heart.
I know. You might think it's not much.
But that's OK. I don't expect you to remember me.
Just the warmth and love.
It's yours, too.
It's everything I've tried to be.
Mike T Minehan
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 7:01 PM UTC