—Katy Brown, Davis
They push up through frigid mud,
through icy cloudbursts
and scrim of hail—
midnight spearheads; emerald stems.
Purple-black, the last dark
of infinite winter,
darker bruise against
a screen of bee-encrusted lavender,
symbols of pastel spring,
tokens from a younger world.
Spring arrives through
winter’s stark remains,
midnight tulips, dark as grief,
nodding in the April breeze.
He came roaring out of the rising sun,
(invisible to anyone who might have been looking)
riding low on his Harley, long hair streaming. . . .
flying down the streets of Stratford.
Invisible, unmarked ― no one saw him coming
among all the would-have-beens of his time,
long hair flying behind his Harley jacket,
Will raced like a maniac into the world.
Among all the could-have-beens ― the hacks―
unread, unperformed, unremembered,
Will blazed like a comet, luminous in the void,
his competition languished in dark wings.
Anonymous, unknown, undiscoverable,
the lesser talent from so long ago, lost,
languishing in the haze of centuries,
eclipsed in Shakespeare’s glory.
Writers, overdressed in lacy collars,
feeding common expectations,
paled compared to Shakespeare’s genius.
Will redefined the art of writing.
The Globe succumbed to his enchantment;
he changed the face of entertainment,
roaring out of the Empire’s rising sun,
riding low on his Harley— Long hair streaming . . . .