Feste packs
Twelfth Night
1
‘A sister,’ says Olivia, ‘you are
she.’
Viola giggles, takes Orsino’s hand
while Sebastian lurks, grins, looks . . . well, married.
And so the whirligig of toffs brings in
its closure. Time I wasn’t here, although
I’ve been requested (in the way that kind
request) to derry-down at their big feast.
Well . . . no . . . besides, some of the others have
cleared out already. An hour since, Fabian
took horse, a deep pouch at his waist clanking
as cloth does not, as pewter dishes do.
Sir Andrew’s long gone: maundering the way
to his estate with empty heart and purse.
Toby, of course, will stay for whatever
he can push at that gross mouth—capon, sack,
wench’s quim—till Maria spots his game
and shrieks, explodes, flails, gets them both slung out.
Viola giggles, takes Orsino’s hand
while Sebastian lurks, grins, looks . . . well, married.
And so the whirligig of toffs brings in
its closure. Time I wasn’t here, although
I’ve been requested (in the way that kind
request) to derry-down at their big feast.
Well . . . no . . . besides, some of the others have
cleared out already. An hour since, Fabian
took horse, a deep pouch at his waist clanking
as cloth does not, as pewter dishes do.
Sir Andrew’s long gone: maundering the way
to his estate with empty heart and purse.
Toby, of course, will stay for whatever
he can push at that gross mouth—capon, sack,
wench’s quim—till Maria spots his game
and shrieks, explodes, flails, gets them both slung out.
2
Did no-one hear the sulphur words he
flung
back at our faces as those yellow legs
spindled him off? Does no-one have a care
for ends untied, for prayer without amen?
He’ll come after me first—and last, maybe,
making me serve the pack’s turn. Even now,
I’d guess, he’s down the city’s rabbit-holes,
a fist of tankard-pay for each soldier
inert between our wars and keen enough
to keep in trim with midnight clutch-and-slice.
Can’t blame him—well I can, I hate him—still,
the joke was winded from the start, and yet
I dived straight in, tormented, gurned—ah yes,
occasion was ministered and I fell
exactly as the doormat steward sneered
that time before my lady. Damn his truth,
damn jokery. Damn all this.
back at our faces as those yellow legs
spindled him off? Does no-one have a care
for ends untied, for prayer without amen?
He’ll come after me first—and last, maybe,
making me serve the pack’s turn. Even now,
I’d guess, he’s down the city’s rabbit-holes,
a fist of tankard-pay for each soldier
inert between our wars and keen enough
to keep in trim with midnight clutch-and-slice.
Can’t blame him—well I can, I hate him—still,
the joke was winded from the start, and yet
I dived straight in, tormented, gurned—ah yes,
occasion was ministered and I fell
exactly as the doormat steward sneered
that time before my lady. Damn his truth,
damn jokery. Damn all this.
3
Packing up?
A moment’s work when you have nothing more
than one change of jerkin and hose to roll
beneath your arm, odd bits of maying rhyme
and flash quibble to tuck inside your head.
I might, while daylight holds, take one last tour
of Olivia’s lush parts: the spinney
where I’d sleep under last night’s tavern-load,
the park where I’d sing death to come away
and death would snort and cry, not likely, boy,
you’ve years tied to your tinpot minstrelsy
before my appetites alight on you.
Forget that. The terrace, then, I’ll stand there
a few vague moments. Nothing I love more
than colonnades with sunlight failing west.
Packing up?
A moment’s work when you have nothing more
than one change of jerkin and hose to roll
beneath your arm, odd bits of maying rhyme
and flash quibble to tuck inside your head.
I might, while daylight holds, take one last tour
of Olivia’s lush parts: the spinney
where I’d sleep under last night’s tavern-load,
the park where I’d sing death to come away
and death would snort and cry, not likely, boy,
you’ve years tied to your tinpot minstrelsy
before my appetites alight on you.
Forget that. The terrace, then, I’ll stand there
a few vague moments. Nothing I love more
than colonnades with sunlight failing west.
4
And after that? Sir Andrew.
Yes, I’ll track
the long throw of his lanky shadow, sit
beside him halfway up his hundred steps.
Unbow his head, or try, with my best songs
for patching hearts split double-fold by love
untendered, friendship made a pool of piss—
Belch’s sour malice when the jig was up,
the sailing disregard of my lady
as was. Go, I’ll advise, seek out the shores
of seas tropic and icebound, passes through
mountains whose air outdoes a drum of sack.
Stand still and stare, think nothing save for how
you were (you told us) adored once. Perhaps
you’ll happen on that lady at some strand
or by a lanterned bridge when day’s played out.
Fantastical? How so? Consider all
the fairy doings we were caught in. Still,
if not, no matter. Bear on with a care
for your mending spirit. Be civil but
be strange. Friendship does not rattle its glass
and furl the bill’s dry numbers in your own.
Your smile, salute—these are portable. Give,
yes, but giving done, take both back. Goodnight
should always play the shepherd to goodbye.
the long throw of his lanky shadow, sit
beside him halfway up his hundred steps.
Unbow his head, or try, with my best songs
for patching hearts split double-fold by love
untendered, friendship made a pool of piss—
Belch’s sour malice when the jig was up,
the sailing disregard of my lady
as was. Go, I’ll advise, seek out the shores
of seas tropic and icebound, passes through
mountains whose air outdoes a drum of sack.
Stand still and stare, think nothing save for how
you were (you told us) adored once. Perhaps
you’ll happen on that lady at some strand
or by a lanterned bridge when day’s played out.
Fantastical? How so? Consider all
the fairy doings we were caught in. Still,
if not, no matter. Bear on with a care
for your mending spirit. Be civil but
be strange. Friendship does not rattle its glass
and furl the bill’s dry numbers in your own.
Your smile, salute—these are portable. Give,
yes, but giving done, take both back. Goodnight
should always play the shepherd to goodbye.
5
And then for me a journey too, a
song
to baffle time and space. I’ll swing off through
the changeful ages, scramble up and down
the future’s hills. Seek out all those who are
as I was, mud-holed at a story’s end,
unable to break finis down and step
into their true pace, own their tomorrows.
Feel, I’ll whisper, how the wind disarrays
your coat, how the rain muslins your sad eyes
enchantingly. No tall yarn prisons them.
Even as we talk they play plait-the-grass
and splash-the-skull round certain faceless tombs
of some to whom I bowed and some with whom
I shat life like crow-pellets. Take my hand . . .
up . . . easy . . . up. We’ll walk to the next rise
and you will see the plains and valleys of
time after tales. I’d say you’ll find, like me,
that dust-broad highways mix contrariwise
with sloughs. But all is yours to age along.
Just train the corner of your eye to note
the tree that bends upon a ridge, the cloud
preparing ebony confusion on
the downlands. What breathes in and over them
tousled Eden and will only go out
with the sun. Here we are. Look on your miles,
take your step. I’m this way. Mind how you live.
to baffle time and space. I’ll swing off through
the changeful ages, scramble up and down
the future’s hills. Seek out all those who are
as I was, mud-holed at a story’s end,
unable to break finis down and step
into their true pace, own their tomorrows.
Feel, I’ll whisper, how the wind disarrays
your coat, how the rain muslins your sad eyes
enchantingly. No tall yarn prisons them.
Even as we talk they play plait-the-grass
and splash-the-skull round certain faceless tombs
of some to whom I bowed and some with whom
I shat life like crow-pellets. Take my hand . . .
up . . . easy . . . up. We’ll walk to the next rise
and you will see the plains and valleys of
time after tales. I’d say you’ll find, like me,
that dust-broad highways mix contrariwise
with sloughs. But all is yours to age along.
Just train the corner of your eye to note
the tree that bends upon a ridge, the cloud
preparing ebony confusion on
the downlands. What breathes in and over them
tousled Eden and will only go out
with the sun. Here we are. Look on your miles,
take your step. I’m this way. Mind how you live.
From Brian Ings. Thank you very much, Brian:
ReplyDeleteA favourite Shakespeare play of mine, Michael. But I've always harboured misgivings about the way critics and scholars have written about this 'comedy'. Well, comedy it is,, 'caviar to the general', full of comic moments. But comedy seems almost invariably to occur at the expense of somebody else's. tragedy., doesn't it? I am glad you chose to examine it from Feste's point of view, and to have found kind words for Andrew and even Malvolio who, lackey and humourless snob that he is, is, like Shylock, so ill-used by the 'whirligig of toffs', that he almost engages our sympathy at the end of the play. I much prefer your poet's view of the proceedings, and your verdict 'Mind how you live', to the whole libraries of exegeses gathering dust and doctorates all round Academia! I am also terribly impressed at the research you have put into the play and the language of its period, which has fed into, and informed a bravura post-modern poetic account, which nonetheless stands as a poem in its own right. God, I sound like some donnish and garrulous critic myself, when my only real intention is to express my appreciation for an immensely readable and enjoyable poem. Congratulations, and many thanks for so generously sharing it with us, Michael. If one of the objects of writing poetry is to make readers happy (and I think it must be), you have this talent in spades.