Monday, March 07, 2005

They All Want to Play Hamlet I have had manuscripts thrust into my hand.  Long ago, before I had any power to do anything but read them.  I have no power today, either, but there are some pretty sad souls who think I do, so I get a few attached files I never read. Long ago, though, they were poets.  They'd give me bound collections of their thoughts and dreams, and it was almost always crap.  You're either a poet or you're not, and I'm not an expert but I know when I'm bored and these mostly bored me. Which is sad in and of itself, in a way.  These people wanted to express themselves and they chose words, a tricky thing, at least in English.  A hard thing; lots of choices, lots of bad decisions to be made.  You can paint or poet and still the odds are against you that someone will think it's lovely.  You have to be good, and most aren't. I'm not.  I follow in the footsteps of Father Frost, who compared free verse to playing tennis without a net.  I like structure, which is why I like newspapers; I'm inspired by time and space, in that sense, cutting a hundred words and finishing by 10 a.m.  It's a nice net, and if it doesn't work out all that well then I always have another week. I am not a poet. I qualify too many things.  I sacrifice brevity and simplicity for symmetry, not a bad choice but maybe not a poetic one, not really.  So mostly I stick to satire and imitation, a nice net. My son wrote a poem today, which apparently was immediately accepted for the school literature magazine.  I am not surprised.  My children were always going to be poets or musicians or both or all, I knew this a long time ago.  A lot of it has to do with math.  Go figure. This is something that calls and calls to their blood. They are acting when they talk about it and they know it is acting to be particular about it and yet: They all want to play Hamlet Carl Sandburg, "They All Want To Play Hamlet" I'm not crazy about Sandburg's poety, although I cherish enough of his prose.  I can't say that he really has a grasp on actors, either. But somehow I think we would all like to play Hamlet, or play poets, create magic in syllables.  Hard work, as I say.  My son is autistic, if in a highly functional, optimistic way.  And if he doesn't quite get what others are feeling or doing, he seems comfortable at 15 about knowing himself. He can't remember the poem.  It was an assignment for English class.  He did it spontaneously.  The best way, if you ask me, but he's different.  I like to think it will make a difference.  Anyway.  Fathers.  Shoot me now. I mentioned this a bit back and got a few e-mails about the original.  It was a simple thing, a mission month as I recall, trying to rev up interest in my church about heading outside the walls.  They asked me to give a few one-minute presentations, and one minute I got a bug and decided to borrow from Dr. S.  Since some of you have asked, and since Julie has spent a fair amount of time lately throwing out paper and cleaning out her studio, and since she found this particular piece, I let you have it for free.  I trust my son can and will do better, but of course. Of all the scourges of the earth Of all the ememies of mirth Of all the pests, alive and dead The worst of these Was Fred-I-Said   "You must believe!" said Fred-I-Said "You'll understand!" said Fred-I-Said "You have to try" said Fred-I-Said "You have to try Grape juice and bread."   "I do not want grace juice," I said. "I do not want grape juice and bread." "I do not want them here or there," "I do not want them ANYWHERE." "I do not want grape juice and bread." "I do not want them, Fred-I-Said."   Would you want them in a tree? How about in Galilee? Or maybe with a Pharisee? Try them, try them, and you'll see! Try grape juice and bread, he said Try them once, said Fred-I-Said.   I would not, could not, in a tree I never go to Galilee. I wouldn't trust a Pharisee. I do not WANT them, Fred-I-Said I do not want grape juice and bread.   Would you try them in your home? Or Palestine?  Or maybe Rome? Or maybe with a Canonite? Try it once,just take a bite.   I would not, could not, in my home Or Palestine, or even Rome. I've never met a Canonite I would not like to take a bite. I do not want grape juice and bread. I do not want them, Fred-I-Said.   Would you like them in a park? How about on Noah's ark? Or how about in Jericho? Sound the trumpets, here we go! Try them, try them!  You can't lose I'm only bringing you Good News.   All right, I'll try them, Fred-I-Said I will, I'll try grape juice and bread. I will not like them, you will see, But then will you please let me be?   He smiled at me and bent his head And so I tried grape juice and bread.   Well, that was very long ago. And I am old, but even so I owe a debt to Fred-I-Said For I so liked Grape juice and bread.   For I was blind, and now can see And how is still a mystery But pain became serenity A sense of a community. As if there opened up a door And I would be alone no more.   So here's the tale of Fred-I-Said The story of grape juice and bread. Of how I came to hear the call. The peace of Christ Be with you all. 9:37:41 PM    comment []

© Copyright 2005 Chuck Sigars.