When Trump first ran for President we mocked
Looked forward with amusing disbelief
To watching this crazed narcissist be blocked
From serious high office – such relief!
There’s nothing presidential in his speech
Just cocksure arrogance and whipped-up fear
Our certainty this race would never reach
A final count with Clinton in the rear…
But somewhere down the line we got it wrong
Misjudged the situation to our cost
Trump’s lies obscured the real facts all along
Now truth reveals so many freedoms lost
America has lost the plot for sure
Rise up and vote him out the only cure…
Would it astonish you if I told you I love reading Shakespeare?
We studied both Macbeth and Hamlet in depth in school, and I absolutely loved it. I loved the rhythm and the cadence and the historical humanity of it all. Learn how the old-fashioned language works, learn to read it as if out loud and suddenly the story comes alive in your imagination, in your head, and in your heart.
I love many of Shakespeare’s sonnets, too – I love the simple emotion with which he writes, pouring his passion on to the page. As with all poetry, interpretation is in the eye of the beholder, not just the poet. I read into it what I choose, what resonates most with me, regardless of how others may view it.
My favourite is probably sonnet 27:
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,The dear repose for limbs with travail tired;But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind, when body’s work’s expired.For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,Looking on darkness which the blind do see.Save that my soul’s imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.