Given that today (and every April 23rd) I am just 364 years younger than William Shakespeare – age today, 87 – it is my constant prayer that daily a drop or two of berry ink will drop from his goose-quill pen onto my ballpoint, and splash onto my pad of paper.
In Shakespeare’s dramas and tragedies, The Bard usually provides us tension-relief with a parade of clownish “Bottoms, Dogberry’s, Dromios, Grumios and Lancelot Gobbos.” One such vies with other scenes for the best of witty foolishness.
Because the time-limit for “open-mike” reading of poems at UMA’s annual Terry Plunkett Memorial Poetry Festival is just two minutes – enforced by the “ding-ding” bell, a couple of years ago I wrote in response the following ridiculous poem: “The Twenty-Two Minute Poem” (It takes two minutes to read it). I present it to you now, even as I did at the Plunkett festival.
Note: This poem was recited at the 11th Terry Plunkett Memorial Poetry Festival, held at the University of Maine in Augusta, Maine on April 20, 2013. The “L’estime Henri Brawn-aire” who came “to-ze-rescue” is poet Henry Braun, of Weld. He actually volunteered to me one minute of his own allotted two minutes.
The “Master-of-the-bell” is poet Ted Bookey, of Readfield. Ted is professor of English and poetry at UMA, to whom is annually assigned the thankless job of “ding-a-linging” a small bell upon any careless or importunate poet who exceeds the “ration” of two minutes for recitation.
A year ago, at the 10th festival (my 6th), poor health moved me to present an ultra-serious “legacy” poem. Yet, a year later, at my 7th festival, I am still alive and kicking – and kicking hard! So it became time for me to reverse course, and move into humor – in fact into sparky, ridiculous, melodramatic silliness.
At my appointed time I came forward, ignored the microphone and lectern, and stood erect at the edge of the audience – “free the jaw ‘n keep ’em awake” for sure! What follows is my verbatim presentation:
“Three days from today I will turn age 85. So too will my ‘twin’ Shirley Temple, of the golden curls. Sergei Prokofiev will become age 122, and Will Shakespeare will be 449! So, let us all celebrate with ‘The Twenty-Two Minute Poem'”:
The Twenty-Two Minute Poem
“Two minutes!”, sez the Master-of-the-Bell. “Two-Minutes-MAX!,” then “Ding-a-ling! Be forewarned!”
Alas! Alack! Wring-my-hands. My masterpiece needs all of twenty-two minutes!
What’ll I do?
L’Estime “Henri Braw-naire” to ze rescue! “I need but a minute for my brandy-new sonnet. Here’s sixty seconds for you, good-Maal!”
Flash! Inspiration! I phone all the poets of last year’s festive. Generous, generous, generous, all!
Ten seconds here! Thirty seconds there!
Here a second
There a second
Everywhere a second-second blowin’ in the breeze like dandelion seeds.
Total ’em up – twenty-two minutes!
Twenty donated – two minutes MINE! It’s LEGAL! So bang the gavel! Roll the drums for the masterpiece of today! By Maal Sibulkin.
Whoops! Something’s wrong! It’s not here! Not with me! I left it at home on a kitchen shelf: Twenty-two minutes of my divine poetic brilliance – not to be heard!
Oh well
Ah me…it’s title, at least is “Bre-vi-ty.” “Ding.” Thank you.
Homage to The Bard – to his having created Portia and Bassanio in love, in his play: “The Merchant of Venice.” Per legal document written up in his will by Portia’s wealthy father, the elite suitors seeking Portia’s hand must choose between three small caskets.
Upon opening, in one of these will be found Portia’s image, revealing the winner. Inscribed on the gilded golden casket: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” Inscribed on the gilded silver casket: “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” Inscribed on the plain lead casket: “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.”
All but one of the suitors choose wealth, greed, and vanity, unmasked by the golden or silvered caskets which they open. Only Bassanio chooses and opens the lead casket, and therein he finds his prize – much to Portia’s sheer delight and relief!
Four centuries later, inspired by William Shakespeare, my birthday-mentor’s view of a man’s commitment to the woman he loves, I wrote my heart-flowering poem: “The Gift.”
The Gift
Such a gift it is…to live, to laugh, to lament, to love…
and to know the result is incidental to striving, mere accessory to giving.
This truth makes loving you…easy to trust, a joy to cherish, spicy to envision, irresistible to risk.
Maal Sibulkin
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