Sunday in the Park With Will

"Prince Hamlet, got a minute for the press?”
He pauses, as if ready to reflect.
Diplomacy, adroitness, finesse,
might work for some -- I tend to be direct:
“Ophelia, by now I’m sure you’ve heard.
Do you accept responsibility?”
I find direct works best.  The prince, now stirred,
inflates his chest – he’s all nobility –
goes on, first about Yorik, life and death –
I interrupt: “it’s you who drove her mad.”
His monologues, he hardly takes a breath.
As to the lady, sure, it makes me sad.
The audience, though, has a need to know.
They’ve paid good money; we put up a show.

They’ve paid good money; we put up a show.
“Hey, Hecuba, go easy on that wine!”
A play within a play, a tale of woe.
Who’s she to me? A lover, and quite fine.
Poor Yorik -- turns out, not a speaking part –
but Hamlet’s opportunities to ham
and speak his truth to reason and to heart
and to Horatio -- to smash, to slam…
Ah, universal truth, how sweet you are.
Proclaimed up on the stage with such panache.
The dream of every actor -- future star:
ask existential questions, for good cash!
I checked the playbill proofs; I get top billing.
Director interrupts: “Once more, with feeling!”

Director interrupts: “Once more, with feeling!”
It’s kind of hopeless with his protégé
Behind the scenes, extensive wheeling-dealing,
and there he is, forgetting what to say,
and how to say it, “be or not to be”,
yet surely getting some outrageous sum.
I’d take the slings and arrows were it me.
For now, though, he’s the one who’s on the come.
I should have gone to law school like mom said.
What does one do with a degree in drama?
I’d have two point three kids, a dog, be wed…
You hear me, children? Listen to your mama.
But you can’t help it, can you, it’s innate.
The dizzying desire to be great.

The dizzying desire to be great,
Ophelia a victim of its whims.
She dies, not by a cruel twist of fate,
nor by a killer’s sword.  Instead, it seems,
neglect and sheer abandonment’s at fault.
A prince’s will -- as fickle as his mood,
and if mere words can constitute assault,
then surely of this most misunderstood
of princes… Hamlet seeks to reassure
that she was his true love, and not forgotten.
How beautiful she was, how virgin, pure.
It isn’t her, it’s Denmark that is rotten.
Would Hamlet have been great, had he been king?
Some words are venom, but the play’s the thing.

Some words are venom, but the play’s the thing.
The audience must suffer with the artist,
and whether it is roses that they fling…
best wish that it’s the kindest, not the smartest
among them that drive sentiment online,
and trolls will troll the critics, not the playwright,
and pepper him with “wondrous” and “divine”,
and hope that someone’s just as kind when they write.
It’s funny how each part is called an “Act”.
Alluding just to what, you surely guess.
Too intimate, or worse yet, too abstract,
accused of indecision or excess…
Find Goldilocks and put her in a cage.
A gilded one, and then the world’s your stage.

A gilded one, and then the world’s your stage.
Full of cliches, he was, and full of wisdom.
Used them all up.  Now, how does one engage
the readers to amuse or to appease them
without encroaching on what’s clearly Will?
I haven’t given up on sounding clever,
nor will I in the future do so – still,
henceforward I’ll wholeheartedly endeavor
to keep my themes on dry and solid ground,
and chastise errant metaphors and grammar,
and stay away from Will: he’s not around,
and sculpt using a chisel, not a hammer…
But I will miss the rose, by any name.
What’s one more error.  You know who to blame.

What’s one more error.  You know who to blame.
Most existential questions lack an answer.
The outer play resolves into the frame,
and Hecuba runs off with some young dancer.
Here is my chance: must catch him unawares.
His sweeping monologues will overpower.
The audience wants more: they must get theirs,
(and later, we’ll talk princes in the tower).
For now, though, Danish royalty’s in town.
and I must get a statement on the record.
If heavy is the head that wears the crown,
then surely, it’s because that record’s checkered.
Well, I’m not here to judge, but I digress.
“Prince Hamlet, got a minute for the press?”