In defence of… Drama

Being a yardling at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2002 meant that, for a fiver, you could stand for three hours and watch some Shakespeare. When a character called Bottom enters the stage during this performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I am standing so close to the front that not only do I see him brushing his teeth, but I also hear the moist rushing of bristles in the churn of Bottom’s frothy mouth.

In defence of… Music

This essay, defending the importance and primacy of music, had been ready to go until the referendum.

Once the results were announced on June 24^th, this piece completely lost its momentum, point and place.

A Final Lesson

What I like about Shakespeare is that whenever I can’t quite put into words what I feel about something (when I get over-emotional and inarticulate and stuttery), I find that he has already done it for me. He has, somehow, already said and written down and reached into the very heart of the problems that I face and given me the exact words to match how I feel. That always makes me feel better, because it’s nice to know that other people have gone through the same worries and problems and fears that I am going through. It’s nice to know I’m not alone – even if my companion has been dead for four centuries.

Yesterday was my last English lesson with my U6 students. I have taught some of these students for four or five years: it feels a wrench saying goodbye to them, knowing that my time spent teaching them has come to an end. I will see them sporadically over the next couple of months, as they come in for final revision and exams – but then, that’s that, and I may well not – probably not – see them again. It makes me feel very sad, because they were a lovely group. It makes me remember again how I never knew as a student what I know as a teacher – that as a teacher, you remember and are as attached to your students, as they are hopefully to you. I shall miss them enormously.

Don’t Go

I hold my finger in the softness under your chin and try to raise your head. Although the whistle’s whine had already whipped through the air – although nameless, hungry hands were already tearing at my back, my shoulders, desperate to drag me in – I will not leave without you looking at me for one last time.

To My Dearest Ben

 

I was a marvellous letter-writer in those days. And so he said to me, as I’m simply not as good a letter-writer as you, you oughtn’t to expect me to write quite as often. But you mustn’t stop writing to me; you simply mustn’t. I’d simply die if you stopped writing to me.

On seeing “Richard II Landing at Milford Haven”

“Richard  Landing at Milford Haven (After Shakespeare)” is a painting by Richard Hamilton, displayed at the John Soanes Museum in London. In 1399, Richard II landed at Milford Haven from Ireland, shortly before his surrender to Henry of Lancaster, afterwards Henry IV.

 

Your faith’s misplaced. I here disown

those expectations you have grown

that tried to make me more than man.

I cannot be but what I am.

I bear your crown. I am alone.

 

Yet we keep going – how, we do not know

 

We slip of half-formed men confront our woe:

Six thousand thousand lifetime’s loss portrayed.

Yet we keep going – how, we do not know.

 

Warm truths you sent to cheer? These, we forego:

Our countless hours loom silent as the day.

We slip of half-formed men confront our woe.

Bearing Witness 3

I bent down, picked up the packet of scotch pancakes, and handed them back to the woman. She was in her 70s. I am positive she had dark hair – but I’m not sure. I think she had a red coat on – but I’m not certain about that either. I think her arms were full of breakfast – but I might be making that up too. But I remember the scotch pancakes. I remember her having red cheeks. I remember the wrinkles that crinkled her makeup. I remember the pancakes retaking their precarious foothold in the cradle of her arms.

I met this woman last December, before Christmas. We were about fifth in line at my local Co-op in Skelmanthorpe. From pancake pick-up to goodbye, I knew her for about three minutes. It is not surprising that I cannot recall her as well as I want to: however, it is no less frustrating. She is important to this reading. She is its story.