How to Modernize Shakespeare

Elect Iago president. Put any Bloody

Fool on center stage. Have Gagas and Dodos

Play ladies and lords. Let Prince Hamlet

Starve. (Exit Bear! Devour them all!

Take selfies with cubs on ice floes; snap

Phantom grizzlies stalking failing schools.)

Have plays directed by pseudo-originals:

Make Lear queer! Make Caliban Afghan,

A much-abused, rude, sun-bronzed god.

Let Paroles oppress Prospero for laughs.

Have the Duke of Vienna ban great books.

Fill libraries with Ecstasy and Me by

Peter Quince. Make poor toms a-cold.

Have Goneril or Regan incarnate Ronald

Reagan--Finis! What about Jacques' Seven

Ages of Man? Let's mewl and puke on

At stage one. Stream cartoons; do not

Read poetry. Drink cola, think cable.

Thomas Dorsett

first appeared in POEM, Number 124, February 2020

From the Depths of Enceladus

Suddenly age has been blasted from sad

to the ninth ring of Saturn. How many

astronomical units from childhood is that?

Yesterday, prose became an inscrutable poem

beneath miles of critical ice. Today rings

hope's ultimate bell. Enough is enough:

despite infarctions, acceptance at the speed 

of light has brought me back to Jersey City:

I'm on my last stent. The door opens wide.

First published in POEM, Number 124, November 2020

Interpretation

As a child, I was fascinated by the solar system. Percival Lowell's theory, with which I was familiar, asserted that striations on the Martian surface, as seen through a telescope, were canals maintained by an advanced civilization. This theory, as I knew even then, had been disproven many decades before I was born. In the 1950s, the belief that life in the solar system other than on Earth was virtually untenable; planets and moons that revolved around the Sun, other than Earth, were widely believed to be either too hot, or, mostly, too cold to support "life as we know it." Today, we're not so sure; primitive forms of life might well exist in our planetary neighborhood. Water, for instance, the solvent of life, is abundant. One of the principal candidates for extraterrestrial life is Enceladus, a small moon of Saturn. Under ten miles of solid ice, there is a liquid ocean, larger than any on Earth. It is thought that life in that ocean, especially around thermal vents, is a real possibility. Geysers from the moon's depths which plume into space compose the ninth ring of Saturn; they contain organic compounds, which is an indication, but not proof, that oceanic life exists. We will find out (relatively) soon. What an amazing time we live in!

An astronomical unit (line 3) is the distance from our sun to Earth, approximately 93 million miles or eight light-minutes. Saturn is about 80 light-minutes from Earth, or ten astronomical units. 

The protagonist of the poem is old and beset with health problems. The protagonist, tired of living a superficial life, is on the cusp of a major transformation; it is 'now or never.' 

I would like to make clear at this point that the use of the first person in my poems does not necessarily refer to the author. I am decidedly not a confessional poet. There are elements, however, that apply to me: I am old, and I was born in Jersey City, NJ. Other aspects are fictive: for instance, I've never had a heart attack or had a stent placed in a coronary artery, nor in any way do I hear 'hope's ultimate bell,' etc.

The metaphorical 'door' of the last line is always open for all of us; it is our choice--at least we can approach it-- whether we walk through and step into a world of genuine relationship with all and with the all. The poem is, therefore, as much about you as it is about me.

Meditation

O you used thimble lying in a dresser drawer.

O you used match.

Concentrate on rough and tumble;

loss, become mythology:

Charybdis as a grain of salt, Scylla

as popcorn. Which worse is which?

Let no soul bob up and down like a cork.

Suffer unborn children. It lasts,

do not forget as you run, it lasts. 

The mind is the brain's internet;

Self is a loose ball of string.

You are the world; disconnect from everything.

Thomas Dorsett

first published in

California Quarterly, Fall 2020 (Volume 46, Number 3)

The Face of Depression

1.

By now, most of you have heard of the Christmas  morning bombing in Nashville.

This is the face of Anthony Warner, a 63-year-old I.T. specialist, who (seemingly) out of the blue blew himself up in his RV in downtown Nashville on Christmas morning, causing extensive damage but no loss of life other than his own.

I would like you to look carefully at his face. It is the face of depression. The mouth shows no expression; not even a hint of a smile. The eyes look directly at the camera with  a combination of defiance and despair. This man obviously didn't want to be photographed; he wanted to be left alone. His general appearance indicates a lack of concern regarding how he presents himself to others. He has obviously not seen a barber in a long time; lack of personal styling of his hair reveals a man who has "let himself go." His clothes are casual-sloppy and seem to be chosen at random. This is the face of a loner; this is the face of a man who has given up.

Look at that face again. He looks so defiant; he looks so angry! The anger appears to be chronic and internalized. How dare you take my picture, it seems to be saying.

This is the face of a man whose needs haven't been met for a long, long time. It is the mien of someone who has given up all hope, Leave me alone, it seems to be. saying--or else. "Else" came on Christmas morning.

How do I know all this? Am I using his face as a Rorschach test? I think not. It is too, too common.

It was once the face of my father, who died miserably in 1967. It is the face of several patients I had encountered as a practicing physician. It has also been, now and then, my face as well.

The contrast between Mr. Warner's face and this face is striking. The face above is that of the renowned physicist, Michio Kaku, the author of several books and researcher in the field of string theory. Warner's and Kaku's are indeed both human faces; both men have long hair, but there the similarities end. Dr. Kaku's hair is long like Mr. Warner's, but unlike the latter's the former's is well groomed. Dr. Kaku's face exudes confidence and the desire to communicate as well. It seems to be saying, "I have something interesting to say, please listen; you have something to say as well, I am listening." The contrast between the two mouths is equally revealing. Mr. Warner's seems to be saying, "I hate myself and I hate you; leave me alone!" Dr. Kaku's seems to say, "Life is good, and I'm delighted to be alive. One face elicits compassion and pity; the other, admiration.

2.

I was convinced it was suicide from the beginning. Emerging facts corroborated my opinion. He parked his booby-trapped RV in downtown Nashville.  The sound system played over and over a famous song from the sixties, "Downtown."  The opening lyric is as follows: "When you're alone and life is making you lonely/ you can always go downtown."  It's basically an upbeat song, but I think the major key turns minor in Mr. Warner's interpretation. Mr. Warner, an obviously intelligent man, was an I.T. specialist; he traveled from business to business, fixing computer problems. He did not have regular colleagues.

Mr. Warner said something to a casual acquaintance that is very significant. He informed him that something was about to happen, after which everybody would know Warner's name. The acquaintance believed that he was talking about good news! 

This is significant. It reveals that Mr. Warner suffered because he was unknown and failed to make his mark in the world. Mr. Warner, in short, felt worthless, a terrible burden to bear. Mr. Warner's state of mind is the dark side of our highly competitive culture. He probably thought a lot of himself as well. The path of great expectations and self-hate sometimes leads to the abyss, as it did in his case.

The recording that blasted  from the RV before the bomb exploded informed those within range of hearing to clear the area. He gave the public ample warning. The immediate vicinity was indeed evacuated, the result of which was that no one died except Mr. Warner himself.

I would imagine that many distorted by self-hate would want to bring the world down with them. That Mr. Warner desired no harm to others speaks in his favor. Deep down there, I think, he was good person.

Poor thing! I think the statement he was trying to make was, "Notice me! I'm somebody, too!" How sad. It is well known that depression distorts thinking and sometimes paralyzes sense.

I heard many pundits on TV state that Mr. Warner should be classified as a white, domestic terrorist. This doesn't help; this doesn't help at all.

Mr. Warner, as an aging white man, belongs to a very high risk group for suicide, second only to that of Indigenous Americans. The fact that he gave away his possessions before he blew himself up indicates a man with a suicide plan. 

He caused a lot of damage, still, I think, one should have compassion. Putting that compassion into action would help the thousands of Warners who exist in the USA get some much-needed help.

I think Mr. Warner was wearing the face of despair for a long time. How many people said, "What's the matter?" or "I think you need some help?" A little nudge; the butterfly effect could have significantly changed his affect, and prevented tragedy.

Yes, Mr. Warner failed himself, but we also failed him. Many of us strive to do our best to help; do you?