—Five More Oxfordian Poems
from Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
—Lute Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
N BERKELEY ONCE
(c. 1978)
I saw the play of Richard,* king deposed;
That scene first banned from print, his crown renounced
So Bolingbroke’s fist on that gold circle closed.
But of all scenes, on one scene my mind pounced,
The Gardener’s entrance, with his harsh assessment:
How clearly Richard’s rule is England’s ruin.
Unpollarded trees, tough weeds; all that investment
In seeds and soil, dead loss. The Gardener’s tune
Turned earworm, how he pushed a wheelbarrow
—Cheap from some Berkeley nursery? Squeak, squeak,
The barrow sings (good laugh!), when all else harrows.
A king debased—no, self-abased, quite weak.
No gate-knock in Macbeth quite tops this croon,
This ill-oiled hand-cart’s teeth-on-edge squeak squeak,
Here in John Hinkel Park; nearby, street names
—Rose, Tudor, Southampton, Oxford—bear great fames…
*At the Berkeley Shakespeare Festival, with musician friend and Shakespeare aficionado Norman Weinfeld. The fine actor James Carpenter played Richard II.
(c. 1978)
I saw the play of Richard,* king deposed;
That scene first banned from print, his crown renounced
So Bolingbroke’s fist on that gold circle closed.
But of all scenes, on one scene my mind pounced,
The Gardener’s entrance, with his harsh assessment:
How clearly Richard’s rule is England’s ruin.
Unpollarded trees, tough weeds; all that investment
In seeds and soil, dead loss. The Gardener’s tune
Turned earworm, how he pushed a wheelbarrow
—Cheap from some Berkeley nursery? Squeak, squeak,
The barrow sings (good laugh!), when all else harrows.
A king debased—no, self-abased, quite weak.
No gate-knock in Macbeth quite tops this croon,
This ill-oiled hand-cart’s teeth-on-edge squeak squeak,
Here in John Hinkel Park; nearby, street names
—Rose, Tudor, Southampton, Oxford—bear great fames…
*At the Berkeley Shakespeare Festival, with musician friend and Shakespeare aficionado Norman Weinfeld. The fine actor James Carpenter played Richard II.
—Painting by Carvaggio
HOW HAVE I DISPLEASED?
My lord, you whom I love and honor most,
I would kneel at your feet and swear to follow
You, richly endowed or fortuneless, ride post
Like messenger men, as you bade—why this hollow-
Toned, cold, abrupt humor? How have I displeased?
I grant I am a woman, less in scope
Of mind. For learning apt, yet much ill-eased
At your side, all unequal to that hope
You held when I once was as your playmate.
Why do you frown with leaden brow, why turn
Your back? The tears I shed I will abate.
Your silence more hurts than hard words. I must earn
Your love again, or endure your fixed ill-will,
Or many days’ absence, gone many a high far hill.
TASSEL (UN)GENTLE
My lord reproves my siding with my father,
Tattling of each least quarrel, squabble, tiff
To him. Mayhap he speaks full truth, no other
Motive how I could displease him. Yet what if
He charges me with far worse? I bore his child,
The bruit I hear is he’d disown, despise
His infant—ours—Elizabeth, speaks full wild
To them, will none of me, heeds all their lies,
His cousins. My griefs, my tears, of no avail.
He’s pleased to rail on haggards, female hawks,
Vagrants who wing from mates, who wayward sail,
Who, seeking strange prey, depart their eyrie rocks.
I weep, himself my tassel gentle* wanders,
Is fickle, soars far—yet chides me for my meanders.
*The male falcon, smaller than the female. Elizabeth = here, Elizabeth Vere, whom Oxford for a time refused to acknowledge as his daughter.
My lord reproves my siding with my father,
Tattling of each least quarrel, squabble, tiff
To him. Mayhap he speaks full truth, no other
Motive how I could displease him. Yet what if
He charges me with far worse? I bore his child,
The bruit I hear is he’d disown, despise
His infant—ours—Elizabeth, speaks full wild
To them, will none of me, heeds all their lies,
His cousins. My griefs, my tears, of no avail.
He’s pleased to rail on haggards, female hawks,
Vagrants who wing from mates, who wayward sail,
Who, seeking strange prey, depart their eyrie rocks.
I weep, himself my tassel gentle* wanders,
Is fickle, soars far—yet chides me for my meanders.
*The male falcon, smaller than the female. Elizabeth = here, Elizabeth Vere, whom Oxford for a time refused to acknowledge as his daughter.
DAYS OF 1583
Green as the livery I wore—greensick,
I was a foolish maid, but now the scales
Fall from my eyes. I trow I am too quick
To blame, yet now I note whereby he fails.
We rest sore punished in sweet Bulbeck’s death,
My infant son. So like my father, or me,
Fine slender features in plump face, his breath
Soft-scented as comports with infancy.
My lord mourns, keeps as keen a sense of grief
As I to lose this babe, but yet not quite:
As Henry king mistrusted, held belief
That Boleyn’s witchcraft barred him an heir, for spite.
I see it now though—much deceived in him:
Now drunk, now sober, now loving, now rants at whim.
Green as the livery I wore—greensick,
I was a foolish maid, but now the scales
Fall from my eyes. I trow I am too quick
To blame, yet now I note whereby he fails.
We rest sore punished in sweet Bulbeck’s death,
My infant son. So like my father, or me,
Fine slender features in plump face, his breath
Soft-scented as comports with infancy.
My lord mourns, keeps as keen a sense of grief
As I to lose this babe, but yet not quite:
As Henry king mistrusted, held belief
That Boleyn’s witchcraft barred him an heir, for spite.
I see it now though—much deceived in him:
Now drunk, now sober, now loving, now rants at whim.
Bard Cat
DAYS OF 1596
(He muses from King’s Place)
The Spanish Wars drag on and on,
The hungry land groans famine,
Stout timbers for our ships long sawn,
Precious few hogs for gammon.
My Queen, in Windsor quarters mewed,
No flag will loft, small sign.
Thin-to-the-rib days, this dearth of food,
Our cows like Pharaoh’s lean kine
In droughty Egypt when the Nile’s
Too low to green the crops;
Yet rain soaks all fields, lanes and stiles
These forty days, no stops.
To Coriolanus my mind turns,
His arrogance of mien,
Yet he, even he, bids whoso earns
By fight, have corn to glean
And feed on. Some Corioli
We should raid, were it near,
Her grainholds burst for penalty
And fee, to teach her fear.
But Holland lies not close at hand,
Her cities hard to breach
By proven soldiers or trainband:
We starve as we besiege.
The wheat that harvested should be
Rots, sodden in the mud.
Ill stars align disastrously,
Our sages augur blood.
As Ajax prayed for cloud to lift,
The better to see the battle,
God lift our cloud, give us good shrift,
Fatten once more our cattle.
corn = another term for wheat
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Wonderful women! Have you ever thought how much we all, and women especially, owe to Shakespeare [or was it de Vere?] for his vindication of women in these fearless, high-spirited, resolute and intelligent heroines?
—Dame Ellen Terry
_______________________
—Medusa, with our thanks to Tom Goff today for his gentle, musical musings in the style of Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, whom Tom believes was the true writer behind the works attributed to William Shakespeare.
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