If you were at our meeting last week you would have been entertained by our President reading from Shakespeare. Interestingly it was written when Europe was in a period of time known as the Little Ice Age. I wrote to Lesley saying how much I had enjoyed the reading and she came back with this gem.
Is This a Danged Weed Which I See Before Me:
A Parody of the Dagger Soliloquy from Macbeth
written by Lesley Moseley
(with apologies to William Shakespeare)
Is this a danged weed which I see before me,
That dares thrive despite my hand? Come, let me wrench thee
I got your root, and yet I see there’s more
Art thou not, noxious weed, sensible
To my hauling you with all my might, or art thou
An intruder of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the weed-obsessed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as insistent
As this which now I yank,
Thou bloom’st despite my frantic, brutal hacking;
And such a big dutch hoe I was to use.
My work is made to feel strived in vain, a David
Against a green Goliath; I need more stones,
And my bucket overflows with heaps of waste,
Which was just so again! That just can’t be:
It’s a never-ending call that brings them
Thus to my beds. Now to my sad dismay
Nature seems harsh, and blackberries abuse
The conquered garden: buttercups celebrate
The compost’s offerings, and morning glory
Woken by the digging of the spade,
Haphazardly released, thus with its stealthy pace
With snaking, ravishing roots, towards its victim
Climbs up and chokes. Thou cruel and cold-heart plants,
But I have plans, weed-killing warrior seeds*
Like cavalry soldiers to the rescue,
They’ll blast the present horror from my yard,
If I do plant them. While I shriek, weeds thrive:
While my poor garden fights to stay alive.
(* Mexican marigolds I ordered. I hope they’ll work!)
Tagetes erecta |
Shakespeare's version:
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
I prefer Lesleys version and think this need to be published somewhere or otherwise preserved. I thoroughly enjoyed it!
ReplyDeleteThanks! It was fun writing it!
DeleteI agree with the previous comment. That is brilliant Lesley!
ReplyDeleteLove it!
ReplyDeleteBrava! Following on GFC.
ReplyDeleteThat was great. I can recite it while I'm pulling weeds this summer. Over and over and over and....
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