It was one of the darkest nights I have ever spent.
Perhaps I should have never made it known but I had to write that poem.
The lucky thing about poetry, though, is that no one ever reads it.
So, even though I wrote it down (carefully, again and again,
re-crafting, re-editing, chiseling at it like marble
unlike these words here.)
Only a couple of people saw it.
I wrote it down (because I had to) but I guess never really made it known.

Horatio is the scholar;
Marcellus, the soldier.
Hamlet has called them both friends.
We never see Marcellus again after this scene;
Horatio hangs around.
Two more friends turn up in a scene or two. It strikes me that this is one of the few plays that features multiple friendships. Women tend to have a single friend. Rosalind has Celia; Helena has Hermia. And men tend to be rivals or colleagues. Lysander and Demetrius, the Mechanicals. Oh, wait, what about Hal and Falstaff – and all the guys at East Cheap. There we have a group of friends and also a Prince. The connections between Hal and Hamlet are several. For one thing, we see the friendships fall away as the Princes head to their inevitable end, one to kinghood, the other to tragedy.

Chemistry class had nothing to do with science. We filled out exercise sheets as we recounted all that had happened between one or the other of us and a man or boy. Each detail, each word, each exchange was absolutely essential to share. I needed to know what he said to her. She needed to know what he said to me. If, by some chance, we actually had to do some chemistry work in chemistry, like take a test or actually listen to instruction from the teacher, we felt cheated and the desire to know might burst forth into notes or cartoons or on the rare occasion postponed til after school.
The rest of the students in the class were a blur. The teacher, a blur. We were in a bubble of exchange. And no one was getting in there.

Ghosts tend to tell the truth – as if in life
the truth was shackled inside the body
covered with a thin veneer of lies
and as soon as the life has been released,
the truth flies free like a bird from a jasmine bush.
One of the few advantages of death would seem to be
the removal of social constraints and niceties. Maybe it’s like being very drunk, there’s no restraint on the tongue, no further will to lie
or position one’s self in the game.
I wonder though, if some ghosts, constrained by truth throughout their lives, might find death gives them great opportunity and freedom to lie.
“Mark, me, Traveler. I was the King of Schneckendorf when I lived.
Quake in your boots, bow to me – for yea, even in death I have magical powers.
I was very definitely not a blacksmith in life. No, no.
I’m here to tell you where my kingly treasure lies buried.
Tremble and note – lo, for it shall come to you if you pay close attention.
And I am definitely not yanking your chain on this. I very definitely did not
Make chains when I lived. Treasure. King of Schneckendorf Right Here.”

Okay, scholars, bring out the goods.
Is there another mention of Saint Patrick in the canon?
Why, particularly, is Hamlet swearing by Saint Patrick?
Is this the same Patrick with the snakes in Ireland?
I’m told that the snakes were a metaphor for pagans, that Saint Patrick drove a bunch of non-believers away. I need some saintly scholarship here.
Let’s just go with snakes for the purposes of the mythological reference.
Is Hamlet swearing by our expeller of snakes because he’d like to do some driving out of a snake, himself? Patrick (whether it be snakes or heretics) was seen as a cleanser of his nation and much honored for it. Hamlet may be seeking a Patrick to clean out his native land.

Wanted: Danish St Patrick, able to drive out all incestuous, murderous and damnéd Danes. No experience required. All expenses paid.

That’s how you should do it, yes, faith.
All this shouting and flailing about
All this gesturing to one another’s genitals
All this thrusting of the pelvis to indicate a kind of joke,
To make us know it as sexual, to make us understand,
With a big neon sign, that this is lewd –
All of the beating of the breast, the grasping. . .
I don’t think it’s the way, There is no heart in it.
I can empathize, this outsize demonstration of big bold telegraphy choices
Is what we can fall into when we don’t know if we are okay.
When we think our words are not landing, when they’re not ours, really
And we have to broadcast the Shakespeare news, push past the truth of ourselves
And the things we could express heartily –
That is, from our hearts –
That’s the scary stuff.
And it takes a brave guide to pull an actor back from the shouting cliff
To speak gentle truths
To do less
Or more with less.
I have shouted, too. I have probably over-gestured. I have probably strained
Toward making that old joke understood. I know I have. And may again.
But I want to check myself, stop myself from doing it again if the occasion arises. Next time, I want the words to flow through me
Like water through a spout
Heartily – easily, with no force, no stop, no defense between me, my heart,
the words and the audience.

Is there another play that deals with offense as much as this one? Or at least uses the concept? I cannot think of one. People don’t seem to talk much of being offended in Shakespeare, except here. And then later, Claudius names his deed as an offense, a rank one, too.
When we talk about offending these days, it’s usually about language. It’s swearing when the climate abhors rude language. It’s jokes in poor taste or ones that cross the line on stereotypes. Offense has become smaller. A murder is still a criminal offense but the victim’s family wouldn’t call it so – – offense is the least of their worries. It’s the loss, the hole in their lives, the disruption of the ordered universe, the violation of trust that we have in one another that we’ll generally behave, that we will do unto others, that we will hold life sacred.