N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 2
Richard III (1592-1593)
Happiness is the art of never holding in
the memory of any unpleasant thing that has passed.
At first dash
like a circle in the lake
what I have said is true,
but in my memory books
everything is faced with artifice—
tailored for a story I’ve now told
so many times it’s become a ritual,
and what really happened
comes back only in dreams.
As the shadow of an eagle searches for a mouse
under the snow that covers the stubble
that’s left after harvest
I stand between my shadow and the sun.
I am only where I’ve been and what I’ve seen.
I step into wherever happens next.
What was I saying? I was in the
middle of a story. I could begin again
if you tell me where I stopped.
The brittle alabaster moon,
I’m not sleeping, a notebook
that once was full of words.
[Excerpt from The Shakespeare Poems.]