image from amazon.com
Bard on Avon
“There is an upstart crow, beautified with our
feathers, that with his tiger’s heart wrapped in a
player’s hide, supposes he is as well able to
bombast out a blank verse as the best of you.”
--Robert Greene.
In 1582, with my hormones all aglow, I married
the 26 year old attractive Miss Anne Hathaway.
In three years we had three children, Susanna,
and the twins Hamnet and Judith. She knew I
had artistic dreams of writing plays, but as long
as I worked as a teacher, and stayed home, we
had a reasonably happy marriage.
had a reasonably happy marriage.
But dreams are laced with fairy dust, unbridled
lust and love, and carnival landscapes. Theater
beckoned to me like a siren, and I was seduced
by her attractiveness. Soon I was off to London
to pursue this sultry harlot, this comely maiden.
Anne stayed home with the children. Several
years of long absences took a toll on the thin
fabric of my marriage. By 1592 I was enjoying
modest success as an actor-playwright. Marlowe,
Nash, and Greene, as university-educated writers
became my critics. Theater was a wild turbulent
world for me, rife with romance and adulation.
I made less and less trips home. My son, Hamnet,
became melancholy and disturbed. I considered
taking him with me to London, but he was only 10.
in 1596, at 11, he drown himself in our pond. Anne
blamed me, and I blamed her. It was the end of any
civility between us. Liaisons with married women
and handsome young men salved my libido.Then
the black Death raged between 1603-1610, and
this emptied the theaters
In 1613, at 49, I retired and went home, leaving a
legacy of 39 plays. My Annie had become a 58 year
old shrew, with the complexion of a dried prune, and
the waistline of a baker’s wife. I lasted until 1616,
when I succumbed to a drunkard’s liver and a
broken heart.
The white drake on my
coat-of-arms was perched above
an English broad sword.
Glenn Buttkus
Haibun
Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub
8 comments:
A searing tale of the life behind the myth! I like the voice that you evoked through your poetic prose. The Bard himself should hat-tip you!
"A tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide," wow, with his critics being that sharp, no wonder he honed his skills as he did. You have done The Bard a great service with your haibun, Glenn. Such a powerful and enjoyable read.
So sad about his son. Something seems off about the story of the kid drowning himself. Once time machines are invented we can go back and find out the truth of the matter.
We tend to leave out the darkness in our celebrations of great work.
Behind every great work there seems to be darkness... I enjoyed your backstory on Shakespear. Sounds like a lot of his work came from real life experiences. Amazing how Masters are only revered after they are dead! Guess we better hurry up and die!!
Dwight
The bird and the sword - there's a poem just in that. Fascinating, Glenn.
Interesting to see him as somewhat of a failure in his own time, someone who grows through the lens of history. I wonder how many there are who are the opposite, huge success in their life but forgotten afterward.
I like the way you wrote from Shakespeare’s point of view, Glenn, interweaving well-known facts with his colourful language. I love ‘Theater beckoned to me like a siren… Soon I was off to London to pursue this sultry harlot’, ‘the thin fabric of my marriage’, and ‘My Annie had become a 58 year old shrew, with the complexion of a dried prune, and the waistline of a baker’s wife’.
Damn, that's a sad telling of his tale. But true to the facts and very likely the emotions as well. I like the man himself being something of a cypher. His words are what ammters, as are yours. Very well crafted.
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