THE PLAY'S THE THING

 
 
Gray April day; rain, clouds, and mist.
Thinking of an old farmhouse in Paradise
(near Newport); George Berkeley lived there
for a while, dreaming of Bermuda.

 
The dreamiest philosopher.  He’d meditate
(and wait for mail) on Berkeley’s Seat,
a little cave of overhanging stone
set amongst horsegrass, facing out to sea.

 
Ultimate idealist.  Of course the tree exists,
George, whether I think of it or no!  Hosts
of angels testify to my existence, too:
O God, methinks me here, solid as yew...

  
as the western world tumbles to anarchy
in Cyprus, isle of Love.  Undone by jealousy
(Iago’s for, Othello’s for, Desdemona, his),
the force that knits together contraries –

 
the power binding Africa to Venice,
white to black – succumbs to malice
bred of emptiness, coarse unbelief
in anything but Lust, Greed, Self:

 
wit feeding on unreasoning hate
poisons the island: rabid fraudulent
Iago rips apart that which he cannot be –
Desdemona (mercy manifest, all charity).

 
She calls from the curtained chamber,
from beyond death.  Who has killed her?
Nobody – I myself.  What does she mean?
She's saying love inspired her every action:

 
love for Othello led her to this waste,
love, that still forgives, even the worst,
love, sweeping through the speeches,
through the island, through the universe...

 
– put down the play, turn on the television.
There’s Kofi Annan (black man, African)
walking down a Cyprus road, on mission -
to unite that broken island once again.