Othello's Revenge Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

It isn't easy,
To be thought a MOOR...
Amongst adored mulattos.
Or fair of skin Negros,
Claiming themselves...
Sun kissed and strictly,
100 percent Caucasian.
Although the blind,
Could detect...
Asian blood line.

It isn't easy either,
To be raised by Arabs.
Believed to be descendants,
Of those framed...
To have invaded and conquered,
Spain.
And then innocently given,
The name Othello.

Nor is it a piece of cake,
Growing up in the ghetto.
Being and feeling different.
Watch!
For every step one makes.
And how long it takes,
To get from A to B.
Knowing 'C' awaits...
Some kind of confrontation.
And on a daily basis.
Sustained to contemplate.


And in this environment,
In which Othello learns...
To adapt and tolerate.
Minding his own business,
Becomes someone's reason...
Their 'nose' eyes and ears,
Should begin to investigate.

And along comes an Iago.
Full of pretense.
Offering friendship to give.
Hoping his wicked intentions,
Are hidden and not obvious.

Although Othello knows,
From where the stench...
In the air,
This foul wind flows.

A developing a revenge,
Within Othello grows.
Unique no one suspects,
Othello's mental effectiveness.

'Hi, Othello.
Your best friend, Iago...
Not too long ago,
Got hit by a bus.
He called out your name.
Claiming you were driving it.
He kept babbling as if,
His mind had from him split.'

And Othello,
Quick to scrutinize.
Judge and assess.
Learned to express regret.
But not...
From the best of his teachers.

'Othello?
Don't look so depressed.
Iago will be fine.
Although those who witnessed,
Him getting hit...
Seem to think he has lost,
His mind.'

And Othello?
With steadfast faith...
Continued on 'his' way,
Praying.




































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