Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (30 page)
Spring, and the first flowers of the century
break colour to me gently. There’s a rash
of narcissus running southwards to the lake,
visible even as I lie in bed
in this stony room. It pains me to get up
when I have slept so little. I make lists.
break colour to me gently. There’s a rash
of narcissus running southwards to the lake,
visible even as I lie in bed
in this stony room. It pains me to get up
when I have slept so little. I make lists.
A list of things I might have died without.
My linguist’s tongue. My rapier and knife.
My trunk of books, the lock upon it. Jokes
Tom Watson told me, which I shared with thieves.
Your cloak. Ten angels from the King of France
concealed in the hem of it. Remembered words
from the Bible, Ovid, Virgil’s
Ulysses
.
A letter of introduction to the Duke
Orsino in the name of William Hall.
My linguist’s tongue. My rapier and knife.
My trunk of books, the lock upon it. Jokes
Tom Watson told me, which I shared with thieves.
Your cloak. Ten angels from the King of France
concealed in the hem of it. Remembered words
from the Bible, Ovid, Virgil’s
Ulysses
.
A letter of introduction to the Duke
Orsino in the name of William Hall.
A list of Bracciano’s benefits.
The peace to write. A room to settle in.
A view of the lake, and sunlight on the wall.
A climate kind to grapes, and wine as good
as the host who serves it. Somewhere to read books
and not depend on memory alone.
The sense of permanence that comes from stone.
The peace to write. A room to settle in.
A view of the lake, and sunlight on the wall.
A climate kind to grapes, and wine as good
as the host who serves it. Somewhere to read books
and not depend on memory alone.
The sense of permanence that comes from stone.
A list of reasons I am still myself.
I write.
I write.
I’m writing more, and better than
I could, contented. For the sting in this
prison of circumstance stirs in my blood
more honest wit than comfort ever could.
And as my mouth was stopped, so must my pen
speak volubly, and clear – and cleverer
than those who would be my decipherers.
Those who would have me killed, led by the nose
to a wall that butts them stupid. Those called friends
led through the forest, note by rhyming note,
to find me in my exile. If they would.
prison of circumstance stirs in my blood
more honest wit than comfort ever could.
And as my mouth was stopped, so must my pen
speak volubly, and clear – and cleverer
than those who would be my decipherers.
Those who would have me killed, led by the nose
to a wall that butts them stupid. Those called friends
led through the forest, note by rhyming note,
to find me in my exile. If they would.
Writing the date alarms me. That sixteen
obliterates Kit Marlowe’s century;
the zeros like a slate some hand wiped clean
when I had all my thoughts chalked down on it.
New spring, new century: if these spell hope
to other men, they toll ‘all gone’ to me.
No plan except await news of the Queen.
Meanwhile my days are sluiced down castle walls
like yesterday’s food; passed through and poisonous.
obliterates Kit Marlowe’s century;
the zeros like a slate some hand wiped clean
when I had all my thoughts chalked down on it.
New spring, new century: if these spell hope
to other men, they toll ‘all gone’ to me.
No plan except await news of the Queen.
Meanwhile my days are sluiced down castle walls
like yesterday’s food; passed through and poisonous.
I’m writing a comedy. Oh, you will like it.
A fairytale, adapted as all tales are.
I’ve added a stupid William, who would woo
and win the love of Audrey-Audience
despite his blunted wit and Cuntry Ways.
There’s a threat for him. And melancholy Jaques
in a tribute to my little friend, Petit.
For me, whose folly made him wise, Touchstone,
by whom base metal can be told from gold,
expounds on the truth and fake of poetry.
A fairytale, adapted as all tales are.
I’ve added a stupid William, who would woo
and win the love of Audrey-Audience
despite his blunted wit and Cuntry Ways.
There’s a threat for him. And melancholy Jaques
in a tribute to my little friend, Petit.
For me, whose folly made him wise, Touchstone,
by whom base metal can be told from gold,
expounds on the truth and fake of poetry.
And yet, the long nights won’t let go of me.
I met me on the stairs. I had an eye
bloodied and scabbed as our poor story told,
and I, or it – there was no human there –
urged me, ‘Revenge! Revenge!’
bloodied and scabbed as our poor story told,
and I, or it – there was no human there –
urged me, ‘Revenge! Revenge!’
Startled awake,
I swear the shadows dragged me out of bed
to mix my ink, and tell—
to mix my ink, and tell—
What would I tell?
Kyd’s fishwife tale, written this time from Hell,
with all the suffering that whips me mad
in castellated prose: in tricks and turns,
and watching the dark, and how the candle burns,
and God preserve us from these men of stone,
their murdering of truth.
with all the suffering that whips me mad
in castellated prose: in tricks and turns,
and watching the dark, and how the candle burns,
and God preserve us from these men of stone,
their murdering of truth.
To be?
To not?
Might I set straight this crooked path we paved
with a shadowed laugh, a play within a play?
Where does the playing end? I rip the speech
from
Dido, Queen of Carthage
, like a badge.
with a shadowed laugh, a play within a play?
Where does the playing end? I rip the speech
from
Dido, Queen of Carthage
, like a badge.
He hesitates to act. And yet he acts
with constancy. With words, he sets a trap
to catch the confession of a guilty look.
While faking kills his love, he hides in books.
with constancy. With words, he sets a trap
to catch the confession of a guilty look.
While faking kills his love, he hides in books.
Yet how to end it all? For, could he kill,
nothing would separate him from his Hell.
nothing would separate him from his Hell.
He is only a piece of chaff. He is a blot
that trails persistent sickness page to page.
A dying man’s drool. A mad dog chasing smells
to the corners of his brain. A puppet king
with not a string to his fingers, miming shows
in the back of his head. A tempest, all his rage,
that might sink fleets or tear the steeples down
dissolving into out-breaths on a stage.
that trails persistent sickness page to page.
A dying man’s drool. A mad dog chasing smells
to the corners of his brain. A puppet king
with not a string to his fingers, miming shows
in the back of his head. A tempest, all his rage,
that might sink fleets or tear the steeples down
dissolving into out-breaths on a stage.
What a clown he is, this prince of perfect souls,
dragging his thoughts to dinner to be chewed
by dogs beneath the table, though he’s raw
as a mutton chop, as helpless as a stew
that’s served to drunkards to be puked outside
and cursed in the morning. How at sea he is
in his pain and motley; only a fool writes plays
and hopes to be understood. He is unhinged.
dragging his thoughts to dinner to be chewed
by dogs beneath the table, though he’s raw
as a mutton chop, as helpless as a stew
that’s served to drunkards to be puked outside
and cursed in the morning. How at sea he is
in his pain and motley; only a fool writes plays
and hopes to be understood. He is unhinged.
Christ, how the nights possess him with their dark,
mocking the stench of his extinguished light
as he stalks through rooms he cannot call his own,
wrestling a thousand wrongs, and fencing Right
till he slides the point through its throat, and feels the blade
unleash
his
blood. If he could choose again
he’d choose oblivion in the world of men
who save their violence for a proper fight.
mocking the stench of his extinguished light
as he stalks through rooms he cannot call his own,
wrestling a thousand wrongs, and fencing Right
till he slides the point through its throat, and feels the blade
unleash
his
blood. If he could choose again
he’d choose oblivion in the world of men
who save their violence for a proper fight.
But no. He builds his muscle like the worm
that crawls through the apple, bittering its taste.
He paints with private torment of the waste
and rank injustice of a sleeping world
carved into gargoyles by ambitious men
who stage this blazing farce upon a pin.
He dresses the hurts of others with his skin
until they heal, his own wounds festering.
that crawls through the apple, bittering its taste.
He paints with private torment of the waste
and rank injustice of a sleeping world
carved into gargoyles by ambitious men
who stage this blazing farce upon a pin.
He dresses the hurts of others with his skin
until they heal, his own wounds festering.
He is Ophelia, gathering up her weeds
when love has blown her out. He is the Queen
who takes the poison, tasting in its bile
the bite of love. He is his father’s ghost,
tricked of his life and kingdom, who now roams
the silent battlements, and when he speaks,
asks him for vengeance like a thing from Hell.
He knows him not at all. And very well.
when love has blown her out. He is the Queen
who takes the poison, tasting in its bile
the bite of love. He is his father’s ghost,
tricked of his life and kingdom, who now roams
the silent battlements, and when he speaks,
asks him for vengeance like a thing from Hell.
He knows him not at all. And very well.
Quiet.
I hear him knocking in my head.
I’ve nothing for him. Nothing. Words, just words,
like countless grains of sand that shift and blow
until a world is buried. Oh, this brain,
made mad with faking, and with playing dead,
condemned to ever clevering the tongue
until it cannot say the simplest thing.
There is no fool in
Hamlet
. Only him.
I hear him knocking in my head.
I’ve nothing for him. Nothing. Words, just words,
like countless grains of sand that shift and blow
until a world is buried. Oh, this brain,
made mad with faking, and with playing dead,
condemned to ever clevering the tongue
until it cannot say the simplest thing.
There is no fool in
Hamlet
. Only him.
A storm. The mountains light up like the bones
of shattered Titans. Every past disgrace
is blasted by God into a reliquary.
The heavens’ sluice gate opens; crackling air
converts to deluge in a single breath –
a wall of water fit to drown all woes.
The ceiling weeps, two inches from my desk.
of shattered Titans. Every past disgrace
is blasted by God into a reliquary.
The heavens’ sluice gate opens; crackling air
converts to deluge in a single breath –
a wall of water fit to drown all woes.
The ceiling weeps, two inches from my desk.
I snuff the candle, better to watch the land
flash into being, disappear again,
like lives across an aeon.
flash into being, disappear again,
like lives across an aeon.
A night like this,
in my ungrateful country, years ago,
a friend ran through the rain.
a friend ran through the rain.
‘Kit! Thank the Lord,
you’re safe.’
‘And dry. The gods have pissed on you,
however. Tell me, why would I not be safe?’
Southwark, two years before the bastard Note.
‘I thought you were dead,’ Nashe said. ‘I had a dream.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ Nashe said. ‘I had a dream.’
Described how I was ‘pale as baker’s dough,
your right eye hollowed out, and in the air,
hovering by your head, a dagger blade,
so real I went to touch it, and awoke—’
He showed me his hand, three fingers cut across.
His voice was trembling.
your right eye hollowed out, and in the air,
hovering by your head, a dagger blade,
so real I went to touch it, and awoke—’
He showed me his hand, three fingers cut across.
His voice was trembling.
‘You sleep with a weapon
beneath your pillow?’
He swore that he did not.
‘Come, friend,’ I smiled, ‘this is a foolish joke.
Did Watson put you up to it?’
Did Watson put you up to it?’
He swore.
‘You think I’d cut and drown myself for fun?’
In my back, a muscle spasmed, three times, four;
as though my spirit pinched me to wake me up.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s not a prophecy.
It’s pointless to fear what we cannot explain.’
I ribbed him on that dream relentlessly,
squashing all claims of ‘vision’. Till the month
I left my dagger in the curtained room
where the dough-pale face of Penry would play mine.
as though my spirit pinched me to wake me up.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s not a prophecy.
It’s pointless to fear what we cannot explain.’
I ribbed him on that dream relentlessly,
squashing all claims of ‘vision’. Till the month
I left my dagger in the curtained room
where the dough-pale face of Penry would play mine.
So understand, that when you write he’s dead,
but no one’s seen Thom Nashe’s corpse, or grave,
I doubt your news. I doubt it grievously.
but no one’s seen Thom Nashe’s corpse, or grave,
I doubt your news. I doubt it grievously.
For surely, if the reaper stepped his way,
Nashe would get wind of it, and pack, and flee.
Might even now be on his way to me,
crossing the mountains in this flashing storm,
to talk himself around the guards, the gates,
to clatter up stairwells, nattering to maids,
until I greet him, dripping, at my door.
Nashe would get wind of it, and pack, and flee.
Might even now be on his way to me,
crossing the mountains in this flashing storm,
to talk himself around the guards, the gates,
to clatter up stairwells, nattering to maids,
until I greet him, dripping, at my door.
A year ago, my ear perceived as strange,
the sing-song ‘
a
’ or ‘
e
’ or ‘
i
’ or ‘
o
’
most every word must end with. And the sun
whose midday fierceness sends all men to sleep
was alien, its kiss a souvenir
on English skin. How I have changed since then;
an incremental metamorphosis
adapting me to exile.
the sing-song ‘
a
’ or ‘
e
’ or ‘
i
’ or ‘
o
’
most every word must end with. And the sun
whose midday fierceness sends all men to sleep
was alien, its kiss a souvenir
on English skin. How I have changed since then;
an incremental metamorphosis
adapting me to exile.
This is home.
The language comes to my ear, its sense intact
as I slip my shadow through the marketplace,
a neighbours’ quarrel entering my head
in violent detail. And my skin, once pale,
is tanned antique: the native patina.
The street cries spell out food. Only the eyes,
which stare so brightly at me when I shave
out of this darkened face, surprise me still.
as I slip my shadow through the marketplace,
a neighbours’ quarrel entering my head
in violent detail. And my skin, once pale,
is tanned antique: the native patina.
The street cries spell out food. Only the eyes,
which stare so brightly at me when I shave
out of this darkened face, surprise me still.
I’m not the man who travelled stealthily.
I wear each pseudonym as second skin;
answer to almost any name except
my own. Here, I’m Will Hall, elsewhere, Le Doux.
So comfortable as that sweetened
monsieur
that I’ve feigned ignorance to Englishmen
who’ve then conversed their secrets in my face,
believing that I couldn’t comprehend.
I wear each pseudonym as second skin;
answer to almost any name except
my own. Here, I’m Will Hall, elsewhere, Le Doux.
So comfortable as that sweetened
monsieur
that I’ve feigned ignorance to Englishmen
who’ve then conversed their secrets in my face,
believing that I couldn’t comprehend.
And yet, inside, I’m England. I’m the clay
that clogs your boots on Kentish lanes, the cloud
that lowers itself like London’s muffling shroud,
to soften the sleep of cutpurses and whores.
The sudden shower that sends the cats inside,
the blatant rose that blooms above its thorns,
the nightingale that sings to spite the dark.
My dreams are hybrids where historic kings
are tricked out of their crowns by Harlequins.
that clogs your boots on Kentish lanes, the cloud
that lowers itself like London’s muffling shroud,
to soften the sleep of cutpurses and whores.
The sudden shower that sends the cats inside,
the blatant rose that blooms above its thorns,
the nightingale that sings to spite the dark.
My dreams are hybrids where historic kings
are tricked out of their crowns by Harlequins.
And England, Italy, are much the same –
though one eats anchovies, the other stew;
one basks in heat, the other suffers snow
late in the spring; one likes its women slim
but plumps them up on marriage, while the shrews
of England make for better wives than sheep.
though one eats anchovies, the other stew;
one basks in heat, the other suffers snow
late in the spring; one likes its women slim
but plumps them up on marriage, while the shrews
of England make for better wives than sheep.
Both countries forged in human contradiction,
in ignorance and perspicacity:
in smug and blind assumption sent to sleep,
in envy, greed and folly forced awake,
in love and loyalty, hauled from the brink –
and neither one is better, neither worse:
two different coats both keep the weather out.
in ignorance and perspicacity:
in smug and blind assumption sent to sleep,
in envy, greed and folly forced awake,
in love and loyalty, hauled from the brink –
and neither one is better, neither worse:
two different coats both keep the weather out.
But no. One sits more soundly in my heart,
without the gaps a sudden wind might frisk.
It’s England’s shores that call me to return,
embrace my fears and shoulder any risk
that I might spend another night with you.
without the gaps a sudden wind might frisk.
It’s England’s shores that call me to return,
embrace my fears and shoulder any risk
that I might spend another night with you.
So this most welcome message in my hand,
deciphered into being in the slant
of Italian morning sun ignites my heart.
‘Meet me at six, beyond the olive grove.
I am to take you where you wish to be.
Special commission from her H. T.T.’
deciphered into being in the slant
of Italian morning sun ignites my heart.
‘Meet me at six, beyond the olive grove.
I am to take you where you wish to be.
Special commission from her H. T.T.’
Beyond the olive grove, there is a hill
that twists the stony road around its hip.
A stone-built barn whose roof is not repaired
open-mouth laughs some rain to fall in it,
but the sky’s relentless blue, the earth parched dry
as crumbled bones. A tremble in the trees
reminds me to check my dagger’s in its sheath.
As I reach the barn, the road’s old curves reveal
Thorpe sitting on a wall in meagre shade.
that twists the stony road around its hip.
A stone-built barn whose roof is not repaired
open-mouth laughs some rain to fall in it,
but the sky’s relentless blue, the earth parched dry
as crumbled bones. A tremble in the trees
reminds me to check my dagger’s in its sheath.
As I reach the barn, the road’s old curves reveal
Thorpe sitting on a wall in meagre shade.
‘My dear,’ he says. ‘You’re looking very brown.
I had imagined you encased indoors,
shunning the sun and penning tragedies.’
He’s reading a map that’s laid out on his knees.
He pats the wall beside him. ‘Come. Sit down.’
I had imagined you encased indoors,
shunning the sun and penning tragedies.’
He’s reading a map that’s laid out on his knees.
He pats the wall beside him. ‘Come. Sit down.’
Cicadas scratch the gap between his words
and my lack of movement. As I seek his eyes
beneath the generous brim that shadows them
my stallion heart kicks at the stable door.
Harder to trust Her Highness, since she slapped
the Earl of Essex under house arrest.
I do not know the game. And though Thorpe seems
an unlikely cold assassin – flaccid hat
and rose-oil scent, his slight unmuscled calves
that surely never walked here, and a flower
drooping in his lapel – that’s just the sort
one shouldn’t bare one’s ribs to.
and my lack of movement. As I seek his eyes
beneath the generous brim that shadows them
my stallion heart kicks at the stable door.
Harder to trust Her Highness, since she slapped
the Earl of Essex under house arrest.
I do not know the game. And though Thorpe seems
an unlikely cold assassin – flaccid hat
and rose-oil scent, his slight unmuscled calves
that surely never walked here, and a flower
drooping in his lapel – that’s just the sort
one shouldn’t bare one’s ribs to.
‘Suit yourself,’
he says. ‘I thought you’d like to see the route
I’ve planned for us.’
I’ve planned for us.’
‘As long as it’s not to Hell.’
‘Tush tush! Does the Devil wear Venetian hose?’
‘I’ve never met him personally,’ I say.
‘Unless you’re he.’
‘I’ve never met him personally,’ I say.
‘Unless you’re he.’
‘My darling boy,’ he laughs,
though still my junior by some years, ‘are we
old friends, or not? What’s changed? Did I betray you?
Or speak your name without due care? Or cut
your purse while you were sleeping? Though dead drunk,
you’d not have noticed. I remember well
the state of you, though it seems your memory
of me is somewhat hazy. Sir, give up!
Accept the Queen has asked you to return
and shake the hand of your deliverer!’
old friends, or not? What’s changed? Did I betray you?
Or speak your name without due care? Or cut
your purse while you were sleeping? Though dead drunk,
you’d not have noticed. I remember well
the state of you, though it seems your memory
of me is somewhat hazy. Sir, give up!
Accept the Queen has asked you to return
and shake the hand of your deliverer!’
He folds the map, places it by his side,
and rises to offer a hand so limp and pale
you’d mistake it for a lady’s kid-leather glove.
and rises to offer a hand so limp and pale
you’d mistake it for a lady’s kid-leather glove.
‘There!’ he says. ‘There! My goodness, you were less
cautious when you were freshly dead. What rogues
have stripped you of your trust?’
cautious when you were freshly dead. What rogues
have stripped you of your trust?’
There was a time
when I’d have snapped his bait and gulped it down.
And yet it feels like bait, despite that Thorpe
is genuine, I think.
And yet it feels like bait, despite that Thorpe
is genuine, I think.
‘What does the Queen
recall me for?’
‘My dear, what else? A play!
A comedy again – you must forgive.
You are so good at them.’
You are so good at them.’
‘Where would I stay?’
‘In London, sir. With me.’
‘But can I not
pen the play here, send it the usual way?’
Why now? Have Whitgift’s spies got wind of me and hired this friendly face to tempt me home?
He cocks his head, surveys me as a dog
will stare at a thing he doesn’t understand.
will stare at a thing he doesn’t understand.
‘You prefer it here?’
‘I’m getting used to it.’
‘There is a woman?’
‘No!’
‘Then why would you—
I thought the exile’s only dream was home.’
And he conjures, with that word, the London streets,
their cries and smells, horse hoof on cobbled stone
and a thousand once familiar things I’ve missed –
yet pushing through this vision’s loveliness
someone who thinks he knows me, swift arrest,
and me clapped in a cell, awaiting death.
their cries and smells, horse hoof on cobbled stone
and a thousand once familiar things I’ve missed –
yet pushing through this vision’s loveliness
someone who thinks he knows me, swift arrest,
and me clapped in a cell, awaiting death.
I rub my neck free of imagined hemp.
‘You have my pardon?’
‘You have my pardon?’
‘What?’
‘My pardon, sir.
A paper signed by Her Majesty to show
that Christopher Marlowe is no heretic.’
that Christopher Marlowe is no heretic.’
Thorpe sucks air through his teeth. ‘I’ve no such thing.
Only the Queen’s request that you should come
disguised, preparing for Orsino’s own
visit to Court some months away. I bring
his invitation also.’ Pats his chest,
where the royal seal must be. ‘But I should first –
she stressed this most precisely – speak to you.’
Only the Queen’s request that you should come
disguised, preparing for Orsino’s own
visit to Court some months away. I bring
his invitation also.’ Pats his chest,
where the royal seal must be. ‘But I should first –
she stressed this most precisely – speak to you.’
He flatters me. I know he flatters me,
a speck in her larger vision. Yet the hope
that I am vital to her plans, that she
should even think of me to call me home,
softens the pardon’s absence. And perhaps,
while in her compass, close enough to see
the powder crease on ageing royal cheek,
if I could demonstrate my loyalty—
a speck in her larger vision. Yet the hope
that I am vital to her plans, that she
should even think of me to call me home,
softens the pardon’s absence. And perhaps,
while in her compass, close enough to see
the powder crease on ageing royal cheek,
if I could demonstrate my loyalty—
‘I’ve watched a spider in my room,’ I say,
‘spinning a web so delicate, a girl
could wear it on her marriage day. And yet
the only nuptials that it renders there
are those of flies, wedding eternity.’
‘spinning a web so delicate, a girl
could wear it on her marriage day. And yet
the only nuptials that it renders there
are those of flies, wedding eternity.’
He laughs. ‘You are the rarest. Come, sit down,
and save the nonsense for your comedies.
If you were wanted dead, would I be here,
and not some Poley, some more slippery fish?
Have I worn out a pair of boots for this?
Come. Come!’
and save the nonsense for your comedies.
If you were wanted dead, would I be here,
and not some Poley, some more slippery fish?
Have I worn out a pair of boots for this?
Come. Come!’
The host who will not take a ‘No’
unless you punch him on the nose with it,
and I’m not inclined to violence.
and I’m not inclined to violence.
‘So. Is that
not better? In the shade? The legs at ease?
What was the thought that kept you standing up?’
‘That you were sent to kill me,’ I reply,
worn out by subterfuge. Thorpe rubs his chin
in laughing disbelief.
worn out by subterfuge. Thorpe rubs his chin
in laughing disbelief.
‘You’ve cooked too long
in the sun, my friend. What must you think of me?
What, murder the man who fathered Juliet,
broke Romeo with that one word,
banishéd
,
and with the woeful error of their deaths,
christened each woman’s face and forced each man
to say it was dust that watered in his eyes?’
What, murder the man who fathered Juliet,
broke Romeo with that one word,
banishéd
,
and with the woeful error of their deaths,
christened each woman’s face and forced each man
to say it was dust that watered in his eyes?’
‘Not you, then, but the Queen.’
‘Indeed. Rare fellow.’
He stares at a foal and mare beneath a tree:
the mare stripping the willow’s drooping leaves,
and swatting her flanks with undramatic tail.
‘You’re worth more than you know. Truly, you think
she’d have you killed? More likely that grey mare
would kick the flop-eared creature in its shade.
She has no wish to hurt you. Though you caused
embarrassment in your more careless days,
she likes your plays the best. Even the ones
that have a dig at her. Titania dear,
indeed. And you’re the ass, we must suppose.’
the mare stripping the willow’s drooping leaves,
and swatting her flanks with undramatic tail.
‘You’re worth more than you know. Truly, you think
she’d have you killed? More likely that grey mare
would kick the flop-eared creature in its shade.
She has no wish to hurt you. Though you caused
embarrassment in your more careless days,
she likes your plays the best. Even the ones
that have a dig at her. Titania dear,
indeed. And you’re the ass, we must suppose.’
The foal flap-shakes its ears free of the flies.
‘Archbishop Whitgift, then.’
Thorpe folds his lips
in on themselves. ‘Indeed, he is a man
who’d like you soundly dead, I grant you that.
And should you return and shout out in the streets,
“I am Kit Marlowe, whom God did not punish,”
the Queen has made it plain, he’ll have his way.
A special cell in Bedlam is reserved
for any maniac who makes that claim
or says Kit Marlowe never died. There’s five
immured already. No one you know,’ he says
in response to my face’s question. ‘Just the sort
that found your death’s convenience too slick
to swallow, and do not trust official oaths.’
who’d like you soundly dead, I grant you that.
And should you return and shout out in the streets,
“I am Kit Marlowe, whom God did not punish,”
the Queen has made it plain, he’ll have his way.
A special cell in Bedlam is reserved
for any maniac who makes that claim
or says Kit Marlowe never died. There’s five
immured already. No one you know,’ he says
in response to my face’s question. ‘Just the sort
that found your death’s convenience too slick
to swallow, and do not trust official oaths.’
I recall those nights, threaded with Bedlam’s moans,
mad cries and laughter, as I tried to write.
Its windows dark, no ounce of soul in them.
mad cries and laughter, as I tried to write.
Its windows dark, no ounce of soul in them.
‘So why must I come to London? Is it safe?’
‘I would deceive you if I answered yes.
But safe enough, if you are well disguised,
to cast your eye about those men at Court
who most deserve to be a Sovereign joke.
The Queen grows weary, since Lord Essex has –
been absent. She laughs so little. There’s concern …’
and here he whispers, though an olive grove,
a mare, a foal, and a high-circling hawk
are all our company, ‘The Queen grows old.
Her health has lessened since she banished him
from her company.’
‘I would deceive you if I answered yes.
But safe enough, if you are well disguised,
to cast your eye about those men at Court
who most deserve to be a Sovereign joke.
The Queen grows weary, since Lord Essex has –
been absent. She laughs so little. There’s concern …’
and here he whispers, though an olive grove,
a mare, a foal, and a high-circling hawk
are all our company, ‘The Queen grows old.
Her health has lessened since she banished him
from her company.’
I quickened, I confess,
at the thought she might be waning. Hand me a lute
and I’ll write a song to sing the Queen to death.
Hasten King James, a man to boldly reign
and overturn the past’s injustices.
If I could be in London when the news
breaks of her death, his kingship; collar a friend
to make a plea for me while power is fresh
and generous in bestowing its rewards …
and I’ll write a song to sing the Queen to death.
Hasten King James, a man to boldly reign
and overturn the past’s injustices.
If I could be in London when the news
breaks of her death, his kingship; collar a friend
to make a plea for me while power is fresh
and generous in bestowing its rewards …
‘But what disguise could keep me safe at Court,
which brims with agents? Or the London streets?’
‘The work’s half done,’ he says. ‘Thanks to the sun
you have the very semblance of a Moor.
All we need now is appropriate attire.’
which brims with agents? Or the London streets?’
‘The work’s half done,’ he says. ‘Thanks to the sun
you have the very semblance of a Moor.
All we need now is appropriate attire.’
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