Shakespeare Party


  1. Matthew,

    To close out Poetry Month and do honor with due obsequies to the beauties you have given us here…

    With the hope that I do their beauty justice, I surrender the following:

    Lyrics for Daphne

    “Help me, dear father; if the river gods
    Have any power, then transform, dissolve
    My gracious shape, the form that pleased too well.”
    – Ovid; Metamorphosis, I. Circa 540-560.
    In the situation of the hours
    By an air full of golden filaments
    I come fresh from battle
    To test time’s epic tincture and tragic mettle.

    I watched you come hunt down in the bowers
    To smell the mown fields and mountain myrtle.
    Your beauty would bristle
    As even latten leaves overhead would bristle.

    For the eye, it was too much: the powers
    Of summer were upon us with a gasp
    Like golden filaments
    Now lyrical, now bristling like a Pythian asp.

    In the burnt stubble and granary towers,
    In the golden zones of the harvest plow,
    I besieged your girdle
    As even I blazed with shafts from an unseen bow.

    The wind surges upon the laurel and linden
    Their shadows broken by sunlight
    While the oaken shadows urge a slow adventure
    Fading into the dimness of evening
    Like a spent myth or a final prayer.

    Then I would speak one word to plead my divine suit
    Far from sound, lost in the soft sight
    And sweet nectar of suggestions as it drips
    With a pregnant sense of that same sweet fruit
    That hangs laden as “lover” on the lips.

    Yet in the end I would be left alone
    With no prerogative, no sureties,
    Only air full of ambiguities –
    Sweating now in the dark without a moon,
    Sweating now in the dark,
    Sweating now in the darkness of a noon,
    And beating my head in the park
    Feeling now certain twin shafts of Cupid,
    With razor-sharp rage, but blunt and stupid
    Against the cruel texture of bark.

    When the night matured toward its crimson dawn
    My rage sought relief
    In divine shadows on a sylvan lawn
    Counting hours back to the first
    Like torchlights dimming one and one
    By summations of grief
    Until the darkness itself was finally one
    Lissomely liquid nimbus about to burst
    Into a billion golden splinters of
    A laurel’s sunstruck leaf.

  2. Cubeland Mystic says

    JOB, did you write this?

  3. Lindsay says

    We are inspired.

    We are now in the planning phases of the first Drunken Talent Show.

    We’ll let you know how it goes.

  4. Matthew Lickona says

    JOB did write that.
    Thanks much.
    Grand news, but it should be noted that Casa Godsbody does not host this thing. A friend and neighbor has been hosting it for something like 15 years, starting, I believe, at the University of Dallas. But it’s blossomed in La Mesa.

  5. CB,

    I did indeed.


  6. All,

    It seems Matthew snuck in ahead of me – sorry for the redundancy – it’s like, I don’t know – repeating something over again or something…


  7. Matthew Lickona says

    Okay, I know you’re going to think it’s damning with faint praise, but “a laurel’s sunstruck leaf” is sticking with me. Wonderful.

  8. Cubeland Mystic says

    Matthew, Judging from the picture, everyone was in high spirits for your sunrise Shakespeare party. Note how the ladies unsex the mouthwash with zeal!

    Yes “a laurel’s sunstruck leaf” recalls the fire and the rose, but your sprightly neurons flee too quickly the attention paid to the laurel in the second stanza.

    The wind surges upon the laurel and linden
    Their shadows broken by sunlight
    While the oaken shadows urge a slow adventure
    Fading into the dimness of evening
    Like a spent myth or a final prayer.

    JOB, You should know that your poetry is worthy of plagiarism. Fine JOB.

  9. Lindsay says

    the photo is reminiscent of Branagh’s “Much Ado..”

  10. CB, Matthew,

    Thanks to both for kindnesses…

    In particular, I believe of course that the highest compliments are those paid through the willingness to do something illegal.

    “The good poet appropriates whle the bad poet plagarizes…”
    or something to that effect, was it, that T.S. Eliot said?


  11. CM,

    I don’t know why my mind won’t let my fingers type out “C” “M” – I think there’s a Latin transliteration issue here – h’s become in some instances m’s – thus “hodie” – the Latin for “today” becomes “mode” – thus we get the word “modern” – from a none too modern word.

    (This is the impetus for a rather sophisticated theological argument for introducing novelities into liturgy: thus “give us this day our daily bread” becomes “give us in this modern time our modern bread”… etc.)

    I think there’s something similar going on with the fact that I’m addressing you as “CB” when all the time I meanst “CM”.

    Give us this day our daily cubeland mystic…

    or our modern cubeland mystic…



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