I’m not Prince Hamlet
Nor ever was and
Horatio am I not.
Of Ophelia I can honestly attest
That her grace is not mine to arrest
The attention of the teeming lot.
Polonius would laugh to scorn
That I was ever like him born
To fumble syntax and bring a laugh
Of pity, empathy or contempt for truth
And Laertes’ rage misplaced an age
The Ghost I’m not, spoke right for sooth.
Guildenstern, Rosencrantz who matter more
Than no matter, can’t be me
Gertrude would not see me in her mirror
Upon the stage, nor Claudius come near me
While Hamlet turns the page.
Osric or the grave diggers would never see themselves
Reflected in my eyes where pools of water delve.
Am I backstage, a technician or perhaps director?
There’s no Deus ex Machina in “Hamlet”
Nor musician, painter, scene erector
Which I could contribute to this performance.
Could I be the rapier or foil
Brought out from hiding to despoil
The hopes and dreams of Denmark’s chance
At greatness in the Ruler’s glance?
No, not I nor potted plant collecting dust
Upstage amongst the bric brac to distract
The viewer’s eye, the watcher’s trust.
No, I am not the trapdoor even
For that is you between hell and heaven.
And among the audience you won’t find me
For I am not welcome in this or any act.
The players gather, take the stage
The watchers wither, weaken and age.
But I am not there it’s true
Unworthy of note, unknown to you.
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