September 28, 2013

At the Tragicomic Café...

Untitled

... you can strut and fret your hour upon the stage.

7 comments:

Freeman Hunt said...

Middle school age children with smartphones.

traditionalguy said...

Will Shakespeare enjoyed acting in London plays and writing plays for his troupe with a great wit and humor among audience favorite tragedies, but after his death the "aristocrat experts" wanted to deny him his fame because he was a commoner from Stratford on the Avon.

Which is one more reason why the Presbyterian in me hates the British Monarchy and its Military.

The disappearance of that 250 year long Evil World Empire's horrors within only 36 months after WWII ended was the greatest reason for celebration all over this earth during my lifetime.

El Pollo Raylan said...

Which is one more reason why the Presbyterian in me hates the British Monarchy and its Military.

Yeesh

El Pollo Raylan said...

BTW, I used to go to that theater too back when I lived there. That was a date with me then -- Shakespeare at the APT. The stage hasn't changed much at all.

somefeller said...

Which is one more reason why the Presbyterian in me hates the British Monarchy and its Military. The disappearance of that 250 year long Evil World Empire's horrors within only 36 months after WWII ended was the greatest reason for celebration all over this earth during my lifetime.

Yes, how dare those dastardly Brits spread the rule of law, good infrastructure and increased standards of living throughout the globe.

I've never bothered to spend any time thinking about Presbyterian culture or theology. If its main characteristics are ignorance, resentment and Anglophobia (as exhibited here), I guess I haven't missed much.

Rusty said...

Yes, how dare those dastardly Brits spread the rule of law, good infrastructure and increased standards of living throughout the globe.

And then proceeded to piss off all the locals.

I always thought it was the best venue for seeing Shakespeare as long as the acting was up to it.

JOB said...

The Miranda Sonnets

I
Freedom, highday! highday, freedom!
This is all a naked world, this island
Of music and flesh, like fugues or tempests
Mixing miraculous in harmonies
Sailing into the world’s teeth set on edge,
Strange, passing stranger, in a falling sigh
Like no mere homunculus singing out
From its innocence in a circus cage;
The squalor testifies the sideshow view,
Being a case of measured forms in bondage,
A disintegration of emotions
Such that the fine point of pity and fear
Blunted by admixture of fool and ass
Is made adamantine – and brittle as glass.

II
For when Ferdinand becomes all Caliban
Lugging his wood from sacred wood for fires
To flame in the green eyes of Miranda,
Tongues plucked will clothe the hairy apes with soul.
But when Ferdinand becomes a brute tool
By which words are hammered into meaning
Such will the vulgar jaw yap out its lines:
“Setebos! I am warming proper to
The weathers of this new god you left me!
See Setebos, no more cold fen, sour milk!
No more, but for wine! Highday! Caliban!”
But the god will not speak his part’s reply –
This leaves the exiles cold and their ransom
Isn’t in it – except as opprobrium.

III
All the same, this island will make farewell
For its prisoners and princes alike
When Caliban becomes all Ferdinand,
And thus: “For the love of wood, Caliban!
Savage easily scared, easily drunk!
And for love, gave up the ghost, coddled wood,
Tricked from love, making the most of exile
Upon his own island. But then for what?
For prosperous fires!” But Miranda flames,
“What, shall we call this bravery our own?
Shall the flame burn so pure for us in hell!
We have no comedy in our laughter,
We have no tragedy in our forced breath.
We have only propensity for death.

IV
“The soul,” Miranda knows, “is hairy as
This thing my father pretends to instruct.
This other’s body harmonizes me
To the brave beauty of this nude island.
Freedom measures the chord by cords of wood;
Sing if you must, but attend the fire first.
For neither book nor stick shall drown the sea;
Neither looks nor gestures will marry us,
Nor shall art nor charm bury this whole earth
Though the air helves in two for Caliban,
All the earth embraces Ariel’s fire,
And the finest emotions are fought out
And cleansed of wit within a chess square’s space,
Checkmate by endgame the design of grace.”

V
Freedom, highday! highday, freedom!
When Ferdinand is all Caliban
Then the deepness of dead kings suffer time
To intrude with deeper eyes, introduced
To the deep dead king who suffers most
From pearly words. And Miranda flames;
She sheds her shadow and matches sunlight –
Or else the project fails, brave worlds break
With all the staged instance of a bubble.
And faith becomes the abstract vessel
Too frail to hold court in search of kingship.
Thus, dashed and left all at sea, our project
Of living breaks up in a dying fall,
Ariel, Caliban, Ferdinand, all.