Shakespeare's side-men
A poem for Will on his birthday
Today, tomorrow, the next day…? One of these days in late April, along back in 1564, the Shakespeares of Stratford welcomed a son into the world … and the world has been a more eloquent place ever since. I wrote this poem to give a stage to my obsession with a couple of Shakespeare’s “best friend” characters. It was published here first in the summer of 2023, when my Substack was just a few months old; here it is, back for a curtain call. Applause, please.
-TIO BOYS 2023
They meet by mischance in an Eastcheap tavern,
after a matinee and evening at the Globe.
Each has seen his best friend killed, again.
Neither is pleased to see the other.
The hell are you here for, Horatio growls, you’re dead.
So are you, Mercutio snarls, or said you wanted to be.
I stayed because he told me to, Horatio snaps.
Not all of us get a fight scene in Act Three.
I died defending his name, Mercutio cries.
Bollocks, snorts Horatio, you were spoiling for a fight
before he ever came on stage, you died the way
you lived, you self-enchanted hot-wit.
Talking to me, Mercutio jeers, or your sweet prince?
Died the way he lived indeed, goggling captive
at melancholy in a mirror, royal wits a fever
of Will-I, Won’t-I. How many soliloquies, dear God!
A prince at least, Horatio fires back, and not some party boy
invisible outside Verona, leaping harebrained in and out
of love, of ballrooms, gardens, duels, marriage-bed,
a family, a life — but who, when he stood still?
Who knows, at that age? sighs Mercutio, drinking deep.
Ten years more — five! — we would have seen him clear.
And mine, Horatio mutters, like to have proved
most royal, had he lived. Well. Damn.
I made him laugh, Mercutio says. I gave him wit —
as medicine, as a window, as a sword.
I stood by him, Horatio says, saw what he saw,
told him — and in that rotten court! — never a lie.
And did we make a difference? — To the play, maybe,
Mercutio answers, gloomy. Not the ending.
The play, Horatio shouts, the play’s the thing!
Mercutio rolls his eyes. Shut up, you’re drunk.
I’m right, though. Screw the ending. — On his feet,
unsteady, Horatio pounds the table. The line, the scene,
the act, the who-you-are-ness, that’s the thing,
the play’s the thing. The ending’s just … an end.
A sword’s end, maybe, scoffs Mercutio, and sways
himself upright. You’re drunk, and so am I.
They play again tomorrow? — So they do, Horatio says,
and scrubs a trembling hand across his forehead. So we do.It’s mannered, it’s peculiar, the said-words are working ‘way too hard,1 and with all that and even so, I love this poem to bits. Partly because of my longtime enchantment with Mercutio, who was my first onstage crush. Partly because of my profound respect and affection for Horatio, who buoys up another self-enchanted hot-wit for five acts until he no longer can. Partly because I’m fascinated by and grateful for all the care and joy and grief that Shakespeare puts into his portrayals of friendships.
Mostly because these two guys live rent-free in my head. In separate rooms of separate houses, be it said; but then, the one time they met up and started talking, I couldn’t not listen in.
Someday I’ll get as bold as I ought to be, and rewrite this poem as a dialogue in iambic pentameter. What could go wrong?
What a delightfully fun poem!
I love this--love the sense of them living on and on, as they do live on in our minds. All the world's a stage, but perhaps all the mind is one big tavern in which such characters walk in and out day after day, to mingle and mull over our places in the great scheme of things.