Shakespeare called his world a stage,
And perhaps it was true for him,
But for me no stage manifests my life,
No play charts my triumph and strife,
Before falling to a life most grim,
And then into darkness fades.
For me, tonight, as I write this poem,
The world’s echoed in something more near –
As the bubbles in my glass rise from below,
Climbing up, their restless flow
Reminding me of joy and fear –
And life, as charted herein.
My world’s in the fluid contained by the glass,
And likewise experience is constrained,
Vast and diverse within clear walls.
From within I can glance at other exotic halls,
But cannot walk them all, for it has been ordained
That through every possible moment no man can ever pass.
Then there are the bubbles at the bottom,
That thing there and never seem to rise.
They’re hopes and dreams – mere fancies,
Ideas from days gone by.
Never will they climb as others have,
They’ll always be below –
At the bottom there are bubbles that will never seek the skies.
But also I see bubbles that climb, then burst, and die,
Starting out their journey before untimely demise.
These bubbles are those things we tried that never should come true –
The fragments of verse, the attempts in rhyme, the people who never shared my love,
These are the bubbles that found out what’s above.
Some bubbles reach the surface, sparkling as they pop,
A gentle hiss as in their horde they reach the top.
What are they? These bubbles can be things that have found their time,
The people from whom we parted without a tear in my eyes,
Or perhaps also those conflicts that finally were resolved –
They too can be the bubbles as they in the fluid dissolve.
And also the final bubbles that climb unto the sky,
Will eventually be like life’s ending as I find the end and I –
This is, frankly, a rather silly extended metaphor. Shakespeare does it a lot better here, but it’s Shakespeare – if that’s who you want, you really should be looking in some other corner of the internet… But hello, anyway – nice to be seen by you. I hope you enjoy this slightly tongue-in-cheek poem, even if some of the content is probably serious. You can decide for yourselves – and as ever, feel free to tell me what you think.
Particularly if you want to tell me I’m better than Shakespeare.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic