Ophelia's Ghost Finally Speaks Out To Her Confidant Poem by Dennis Ryan

June 23,2006

"there's rue for you; and here's some for me; we may call it herb of grace
o' Sundays: O, you must wear your rue with a difference."
- Ophelia speaking to her confidant in William Shakespeare's Hamlet

What was I after Hamlet quit me, killed my father,
and my brother delayed his return for his lust?
I was alone, totally alone, in a sea of cold comfort
and altered eyes, and what was I to do?Yes, I know,
everyone said I drowned myself—but that's the way
they wanted it for appearance sake.You know that.
And what was I to say, a young woman without a voice
who lived at the beck and call of father and brother?
Even Horatio, even Horatio—he looked round and found
himself at the queen's side, at her behest whispering things
about me— and what did she say, if anything, to the king?
I did drown, but under a wave of cruel male cunning
that made it look like suicide to cover the king's plotting.
Then Gertrude glossed the entire affair with well-timed, well-chosen
words on the most propitious occasions—words most expeditious
for a queen; I mean, Claudius had already murdered the old king,
and you're telling me the queen didn't know and approve
after making illicit love to him for months long onto a year?
I have been silent for too long after so much malicious talk:
they killed me after Laertes' return you know.After.
After I had picked the flowers, for him, for everyone else,
fennel for you, and columbines, after I had started...
O, you must wear your rue with a difference:
pity poor Ruth, pity me.As I said, they needed to shut me,
quick, good, for appearance sake, and had a jolly time
doing it.I know you'd enjoy hearing all the bloody details,
but I'll save them for another time for my private.
In the end, what was I, my brother, my father to them—
just tools to get what they wanted.Well, fool, they got it,
and more than they had bargained for by play's end—
of course, you know it ended badly for everyone.