Hamlet Mindreads Ophelia, And She Him: The Second Rejoinder As Hamlet's Final Soliloquy Poem by Dennis Ryan

Friday night, December 9,2016 at 10: 35 p.m.; Saturday morning, December 10 at 9: 20 a.m.; Sunday night, December 11 at 11: 56 p.m.; Wednesday afternoon, November 14,2018 at 2: 46 p.m.

"The sun came up, desperate, desperate..."
- Natalie Imbruglia, "When You're Sleeping"

All words meaningless, empty as you speak—
Is this really you? —Nearing play's end, soon
to die by way of the king's hand, you are dead
in me—sans explanation— no telling words
forthcoming from you, only obfuscation following
from those surrounding you—I have "gotten wind"
from one blowing hot, desert air—you know?
You need explain what happened— my feeling
shredded— raw and torn like the palms of my hands
that night of the lights—the push to my left just prior
to my fall—I blame you for nothing, but want to understand,
why, what you said in the aftermath.... why you have kept me
in the dark... I present various claims, counter-claims and questions
basedupon fact, observation: the injuries suffered by my hunting dogs—
at your station—but the truth, ah, the truth is ever bending, arcing
when you tell it, especially when you advance to meet the situation,
our condition...and why did I believe in books, literature, art
and painting when I cannot believe in you for a split second—
your words are powerful, more powerful in me than any dance,
book, ballet, painting, or sculpture.(And you ask me why,
to a question to which you already hold the answer? You,
yours is a rhetoric par excellance—though that's supposed
to be my province, my expertise, my vanityand pleasure.)
For better or worse, it always comes down to persons—
not those other things— it's the dancer, the writer,
the painter, the sculptor...And the necessary corollary—
what kind of person is he or she? What drives her, him—
What's his motivation, hers? What's the telos—the end goal.
You can't care about, make love to a dance, a painting, a poem,
a statue—no matter how brilliantly crafted.You already know
my feelings, and I yours... you mindread me, and I you—
we step in, in turn, wonder what the other is doing, thinking,
take turns, hit, miss, hit the mark in the dark—we had a little
something, Ophelia.Case in point— had you been of my time,
place and station, seen and experienced what I have—then...
that would have made a difference... and then, perhaps,
even then there could have been the seeds of friendship—
but no, not even that with the "police powers" here working—
i.e. the king and queen, your father and brother—brokers of power,
breakers of hearts— they rule you.They rule you.You have neither
voice, power nor perhaps the will to rule yourself right now—I know.
I hate skulduggery, skunks, skunk cabbage, skunk weed, skunks
skulking and skullying about—that dreadful smell.Has some animal
died, been killed hereabouts? That dam-ned brach that smells...
like a fishmonger... Cela sent...Ça sent mauvais, mal...
Comme un poissonnier... Souviens-toi de moi—Remember me.
Remember this: our friendship is finished unless you come clean,
show me who you really are, who you can be—that wondrous...
for at least part of the time.Agency.Potential.Being—I see,
have seen enough... you are not me (not that mistake again) ,
and so you go walking briskly like that painter hero of yours
through murderously narrow, rutted dirt roads in that rural town.
What's to become of you, your person, your voice? How will
you answer the bell? It's all in the offing and only you can tell—
half way here, half way there...You alone.No one else.
Take your time, move along slowly, go to that wellspring
of yours, smell the fresh spring water and that cool salt spray.
Dive deep, refresh yourself—at the spot... I can't tell you
where or how, but I can tell you what to look for, the water's
depth based upon its many hues, colors—read my book.
Free yourself—see me—sea, as all is not yet decided,
lost, not by a long shot.Believe me.Eyes—your eyes, mine,
in any language.I can't bear the thought of ___ ___.There,
I finally said it.Keep your eyes fixed on the spot: X marks only
one final destination.Not yours, nor mine—Begin, O small boy,
to be born; on whom his parents have not... Reader, reader...