Poetry Man

Back in the Bronze Age when The Amazing Bob and I were pre-courting (AKA finding any and every excuse to ‘accidentally’ run into each other at work. You know, so as to banter, flirt, engage in wanton, mutual jibber jabber and otherwise make with the googly eyes ) we talked of poetry, literature, music and art. And Sea Anemone. Of course.

Bob was really into Shakespeare, Twain, Ginsberg,  Kerouac, Diane DiPrima and more. He introduced me to the French surrealist poets (folks, remember that a little Prevert, Rimbaud and Baudelaire works a treat when you’re trying to get some luscious, little  hottie between the sheets).

I just read, in Sunday’s Globe, that Olympia Dukakis will be playing the role of Prospero (Prospera now) in an upcoming production of The Tempest out in Lenox . Day-um, she'll be a zillion kinds of awesome. I wonder if there’ll be ASL ‘terping . That'd be another 500 kinds of awesome, don'cha think?!

From The Tempest

Caliban to Prospero and Miranda -- words from the colonized to the colonizer.

You taught me language, and my profit on’t
Is I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!

Prospero to his daughter when cutting short her wedding celebration, trying to make it out as just a mirage anyway. All this so he can get back to work (filthy rotten bastid!):

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
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.

From MacBeth - Upon hearing that his wife has died, Macbeth wonders, wonders, wonders.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Just gotta post this link one more time. I'm SO psyched to find this site! Go look, go look -- it's so damned cool!
ASL Shakespeare Project 
Phoebe Snow -- Poetry Man