This Strange Eventful History
Who shall play the villain this time?
This Strange Eventful History
The Bard was right, that “all the world’s a stage
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.”
Yet what if under heaven’s ropes, eternity
spins many lives, and every lifetime bids
each one of us to act so real, so true?
What if we tread these earthen boards not once,
but oft, each lifetime cast in disparate roles
as baker, constable, artist, saint, even
villain unredeemable, depraved?
We might be siblings, separated by fate,
or lovers, sworn to constancy ‘til death;
it matters not, you see. The play’s the thing.
This time around, the curtain draws to frame our fight:
you and I, entwined in mortal combat,
your crown, my sword, the bitterest of foes.
We slash and stab, wheel and wrench, “for freedom!”
I cry; “for the good of all!” you bellow—
intentions spurred by grave commitment to
a truth our characters have shaped from womb—
full blinded to the greasepaint on our cheeks,
the trompe l'oeil, the plaster and the paint
that clings to man-made sets of particleboard,
so real, so very real, that we forget,
time and again… a play it is. A show.
For us, born to actors, trained by actors,
enacting is our unremembered task,
this stage our home until last scene of all,
that ends this strange eventful history—
when lines expire and you I slay.
Your blood
is crimson, counterfeit, yet darkly stains;
my tears are real. I taste their salt. Unearned
they seem, confounding me and victory,
for why should I lament a tyrant’s loss?
The written script provides me not one clue,
nor seconds more to ruminate, besides —
the play is done. The curtain comes for all.
Backstage, within that liminal greenroom
where costumes fall and undressed souls emerge,
the answer lights upon me like a butterfly,
and so I clasp your hand, eyes joining yours,
and speak words unrehearsed:
“An honor true,
to act against a villain such as you:
a thankless role, convincingly portrayed,
yet vital to complete this round charade,
as light without the darkness cannot shine,
so tears of mercy dawn in love divine.
And if we share this stage again someday,
the roles reversed, I will recall — I pray —
that each of us is cast to play our parts,
souls sent by sacred love to waken hearts.”
“Perhaps,” you say, “what’s only certain, dear,
from curtain to curtain… is theatre here.”
Mary, this is wonderful. A visceral reminder of who we really are and where we really are. A call to break the spell and see the conditioning and the role-playing. I especially love the line about the 'liminal greenroom where costumes fall and undressed souls emerge'. It more of us could remember, more of the time, that that is where we are all headed, we could write a different ending. Or maybe we could just live out the same story but with a different sense of meaning, and profounder connecction to the realities behind. May that, even, would be enough.
You are a true poet.
Bravo.
We present as actors, stagehands and audience in the drama. Some in the audience see meaning in the lines, others are looking for action. The Great Writer seems to impress its intent but not content to temporal writers. Many stories center around the downfall of the villain. The villain feels they have the right to turn any situation to their personal advantage. In this we all exhibit some element of villainy. The more common story center is good vs bad, that is after all an easier way to write. But the Great Writer has deeper intent, shadows of which are captured by great temporal writers. For me, a central meaning contained in most story lines is that ego does not run the world, rather, our collective heart connection to our Creator runs the world. It seems the Great Writer needs to be a bit repetitive before the audience realizes the meaning in the lines.