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Here they are on the balcony,
Garish, burned harsh into color.
In the city of Pisanello and Stefano,
Who lightly touched the Madonna's hair into wings,
I can buy this romantical junk for fifty lire
And send vulgarity home. Romeo, Giuletta,
How do you survive? Not even Shakespeare
Could kill you once and for all, lavishing
So much clear genius on his fierce cold play:
First, his thugs on the streets, held back
From cutting each other's throats only
By threats of a flat thwack on the skull;
Then families hating each other,
The trysts after dark,
One pointless murder after another,
The questionable marriage the world
Would have hushed up and broken anyway.
And the absolutely final death, ridiculous,
Brutal, a cheap loss, a death cruel
And stupid as yours or mine.
Yet not even Shakespeare could kill them
Once and for all. If you don't believe me,
Just mention the names to anyone,
A stranger on the street: Romeo, Juliet.
And all that the stranger will remember
Is a radiance in the dusk,
A light wing fluttering in a vine,
Hands shocked by touching,
Strange and forbidden,
A bomb, and no chance to live long.
Oh, I know:
It's nothing after all
But a prosaic clutter:
Shakespeare, in a hurry,
Stole the plot of Romeo and Juliet
From a mediocre narrative poem
Written in fourteeners by Arthur Brooke.
And I know:
He probably lifted at least part of the plot
Of As You Like It
From an English translation of an Italian novella
By Robert Greene,
Who bad-mouthed the young Shakespeare
For stealing scenes from his betters,
As Greene, defeated and debt-ridden,
Lay whining penances
On his own dirty deathbed.
I know:
The citizens of Verona once called
Their ruler a crazy dog.
I know:
The heavens blossoming above this ravishing
And beautiful city blackened with wings
Of bombing planes,
And children scampering like mice
Into the cracks of the vast marble Arena,
All hell broken loose.
Oh, I know
All I'm giving you is a cheap, chintzy
Picture postcard, a gross and messy imitation
Of a poet's dream of something hopeless
That didn't have a chance in this world.
What chance do we have?
We are nothing but a poet's dream
Of lovers who choose to live.
Not a chance.
Oh, I know:
I know, I know, I know,
How can I forget?
This world is a mess,
A sinking menace of loveliness and danger.
Fumbling to touch hands in the dark,
Their hands fluttered into flames.
I know, and yet--
Just mention their names
To any stranger,
Anyone at all.
He will recall,
Not the strange menace of their loveliness,
But only the lovers. |