Sleepless in Stratford-upon-Avon
Sat, 23 Apr 2016
For at least the twelfth night in succession,
this - midsummer’s eve, would you believe, a buzzing
in my head, restless in my bed!
Much ado about nothing? Methinks, not.
More, the surreptitious stirrings of my brain,
hatching a poem, or a play, or both.
A proverbial ‘bee in my bonnet’, my complaint,
and if this be so...busy bee, go forage for sonnets, sestinas....
odes and airs; take the liberty within my head
to multiply...to swarm...
not helped, it’s true, by bawdy goings on...two
gentlemen from Verona, and a Merchant of Venice
in adjacent rooms.
And thence, at dawn, desist, disperse, depart,
because, by hook by crook by bell, by book
by candle, this chapter shall be writ,
mark my words...
even though my trusted quill has gone
on the blink with a surfeit of ink, and the blotter
gone AWOL. ‘Out damned spot, a curse on thee!’
Thus, measure for measure and all things being equal
for thy sake, bothersome bee, buzz off, or else
the question will be, ‘To swat, or to swat not.’
Let the nightjar beguile, and the crickets chime in,
with their whimsical mono-note symphony, for
all is well that ends well, my friend,
and presently, I shall sleep,
perchance to dream.