Read The Marlowe Papers Online
Authors: Ros Barber
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Literary, #Biographical, #Women's Prize for Fiction - all candidates
The Marlowe Papers (11 page)
Still, the past draws me like a jug of beer
back to the moments when my star was high.
The greater the heights, the more extreme the fall.
And in those glorious nights, the splintered how
of waking up breached and broken on my now.
back to the moments when my star was high.
The greater the heights, the more extreme the fall.
And in those glorious nights, the splintered how
of waking up breached and broken on my now.
‘You stir them up,’ Sir Walter Raleigh says,
beating his pipe until the ash submits.
His West Country burr like John Allen, but soft
as the lace of a courtier’s delicate handkerchief.
‘It’s more than entertainment on the stage.
You show us ourselves. Uncomfortable to see.’
beating his pipe until the ash submits.
His West Country burr like John Allen, but soft
as the lace of a courtier’s delicate handkerchief.
‘It’s more than entertainment on the stage.
You show us ourselves. Uncomfortable to see.’
My own discomfort is the feathered brooch
he has perched in his hair. He mustn’t see
I’m fighting to keep my eyes fast on his face.
he has perched in his hair. He mustn’t see
I’m fighting to keep my eyes fast on his face.
‘I write what comes to me.’
He motions I
should sit down in a heavy, cushioned chair
less throne-like than his own. Behind his head
the river’s sultry darkness softly winks
with a barge’s lamp.
less throne-like than his own. Behind his head
the river’s sultry darkness softly winks
with a barge’s lamp.
‘This was the lantern tower,’
he waves at book-shelved walls, ‘when this dear palace
belonged to the Bishop of Durham. Now I’ve made
a study of it.’ Enjoying his own pun.
Self-educated, he displays his books
as peacocks do their fans. ‘Knowledge entails
the shedding of new light on old conundrums.’
Perhaps he believes his riches make him wise,
or that his knighthood, and the Queen’s good favour
entitle a sailor to school a Cambridge scholar.
‘This room’s a metaphor.’
belonged to the Bishop of Durham. Now I’ve made
a study of it.’ Enjoying his own pun.
Self-educated, he displays his books
as peacocks do their fans. ‘Knowledge entails
the shedding of new light on old conundrums.’
Perhaps he believes his riches make him wise,
or that his knighthood, and the Queen’s good favour
entitle a sailor to school a Cambridge scholar.
‘This room’s a metaphor.’
A laboured one,
I think, but say, ‘A perfect place to write.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He pours us both a drink
– ‘The sailor’s delicacy. You don’t mind?’ –
and offers me tobacco. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘I haven’t tried it.’ ‘Well, you should, my boy.
The native Indian tribesmen of Virginia
will claim it brings you closer to your soul.
Relaxes one. Here. Borrow my spare pipe.’
It’s carved with naked women. Raleigh laughs
as I study it. ‘I’m told they run around
like the nymphs and dryads of antiquity.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ He pours us both a drink
– ‘The sailor’s delicacy. You don’t mind?’ –
and offers me tobacco. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘I haven’t tried it.’ ‘Well, you should, my boy.
The native Indian tribesmen of Virginia
will claim it brings you closer to your soul.
Relaxes one. Here. Borrow my spare pipe.’
It’s carved with naked women. Raleigh laughs
as I study it. ‘I’m told they run around
like the nymphs and dryads of antiquity.’
‘The New World is an old one, then?’
‘Perhaps.
I have a mathematician in my pay
who calculated they have been around
for sixteen thousand years. Ten thousand more
than the Church gives all Creation. Some would call
him heretic. But how d’you account for that?’
who calculated they have been around
for sixteen thousand years. Ten thousand more
than the Church gives all Creation. Some would call
him heretic. But how d’you account for that?’
He lights my pipe, and his. I watch him close,
and suck, as he does. Bitter on my tongue
and puffing my words to clouds. ‘I’d trust a scholar
before I’d trust a bishop with the truth,’
I say.
and suck, as he does. Bitter on my tongue
and puffing my words to clouds. ‘I’d trust a scholar
before I’d trust a bishop with the truth,’
I say.
‘Too harsh!’ He laughs. ‘What can you mean?’
‘We’re prone to take the Bible literally,
forgetting it was written for the flocks
of a simpler age.’
forgetting it was written for the flocks
of a simpler age.’
‘You’re not an atheist?’
he asks, half casually.
‘The word of God
must be interpreted,’ I say, ‘by man.
And man is full of ignorance and sin.
The Bible tells us so.’
And man is full of ignorance and sin.
The Bible tells us so.’
Raleigh guffaws
and throws his head back, so his pointed beard
pokes like a mason’s trowel into the air.
‘You priceless man. It’s true, then, what I’ve heard?’
‘What have you heard?’
pokes like a mason’s trowel into the air.
‘You priceless man. It’s true, then, what I’ve heard?’
‘What have you heard?’
‘
I count religion but
a childish toy.
That line is yours?’
That line is yours?’
‘It is
a character’s.’
‘You hold it true yourself?’
To buy a pause, I suck and blow out smoke.
‘You should inhale,’ he says, concerned. ‘Like this.
To feel it in your lungs. Not much at first.
You’ll find it powerful.’
‘You should inhale,’ he says, concerned. ‘Like this.
To feel it in your lungs. Not much at first.
You’ll find it powerful.’
So I inhale …
and cannot speak for coughing. Raleigh smiles,
and passes a lacy napkin.
and passes a lacy napkin.
‘Apologies.
Perhaps a little less than that. More drink?’
To mend my throat, I gulp rather than sip,
then wipe my mouth and say, ‘My view is this.
Religion is irrelevant. What counts
is faith in God, and love of humankind.
A Catholic’s as human as a Jew,
a Muslim, Moor or Puritan; though he,
the Puritan, will aim to enjoy it less.
But only the pure intentions of the heart
connect us to our source. Not ritual,
not superstitious oath, not form of prayer,
nor literal translation.’
To mend my throat, I gulp rather than sip,
then wipe my mouth and say, ‘My view is this.
Religion is irrelevant. What counts
is faith in God, and love of humankind.
A Catholic’s as human as a Jew,
a Muslim, Moor or Puritan; though he,
the Puritan, will aim to enjoy it less.
But only the pure intentions of the heart
connect us to our source. Not ritual,
not superstitious oath, not form of prayer,
nor literal translation.’
Raleigh nods
his sage approval. ‘Truly. To preconceive
is to imprison thought, which should be free.
We will discover nothing if we bind
ourselves to accepted wisdoms. Questioning
is necessary for discovery.
The best minds in the country think like yours.’
is to imprison thought, which should be free.
We will discover nothing if we bind
ourselves to accepted wisdoms. Questioning
is necessary for discovery.
The best minds in the country think like yours.’
I find I’m liking him a little more.
Though he is fishing, I’m a fisher too.
I suck at my pipe more cautiously; this time
a sudden airiness, a head as light
as a gust of autumn wind.
Though he is fishing, I’m a fisher too.
I suck at my pipe more cautiously; this time
a sudden airiness, a head as light
as a gust of autumn wind.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says.
‘I wanted to show you this. This lyric’s yours?’
He brings out from a drawer the song I wrote
for lute, ‘Come Live With Me and Be My Love’,
expertly copied in a stranger’s hand.
‘It is.’
He brings out from a drawer the song I wrote
for lute, ‘Come Live With Me and Be My Love’,
expertly copied in a stranger’s hand.
‘It is.’
‘Delightful! I have made reply
from the love-shy maiden. Would you like to see?’
Without a pause for my assent, he thrusts
the answer in my hands. ‘See how the form
has followed you precisely.’ He is pleased,
and breathes like a panther, softly, in a tree,
digesting. In my flesh, tobacco buzzes
like a woman stroking all of me. His praise
could almost bed me if he shaved the beard.
I read, but cannot take it in.
Without a pause for my assent, he thrusts
the answer in my hands. ‘See how the form
has followed you precisely.’ He is pleased,
and breathes like a panther, softly, in a tree,
digesting. In my flesh, tobacco buzzes
like a woman stroking all of me. His praise
could almost bed me if he shaved the beard.
I read, but cannot take it in.
‘So to
the reason why I sent for you,’ he says.
‘We have a meeting, once a month, held here.
We would be very grateful if you’d speak
on a subject of your choosing.’
‘We have a meeting, once a month, held here.
We would be very grateful if you’d speak
on a subject of your choosing.’
‘Who’ll attend?’
‘Lord Strange. Northumberland. George Carey too.’
These names as powerful as laudanum
dropped in my glass. He has my ‘Yes’ right here.
‘George Chapman, Matthew Roydon, fellow poets.
Thomas Harriot. Others I shall not name.
But men of some education, with a bent
towards the improvement of humanity.
Many of these you know.’
These names as powerful as laudanum
dropped in my glass. He has my ‘Yes’ right here.
‘George Chapman, Matthew Roydon, fellow poets.
Thomas Harriot. Others I shall not name.
But men of some education, with a bent
towards the improvement of humanity.
Many of these you know.’
‘Matt Roydon, yes.
And the Earl of Northumberland made me his guest
this summer last. I used his library.’
this summer last. I used his library.’
‘And of course Lord Strange has furnished you a room
to write for his players.’
to write for his players.’
‘You are well informed.’
Sir Walter rises. ‘London’s alive with gossip.
If people are bones then gossip is the flesh.
If people are bones then gossip is the flesh.
The power goes to he who controls the flow.’
He turns the globe that sits upon his desk
until I’m faced with the Americas:
his prize, his conquest, feeder of his pipe.
He turns the globe that sits upon his desk
until I’m faced with the Americas:
his prize, his conquest, feeder of his pipe.
‘As a lung for gossip, this house does not exhale.
Thus we speak freely here,’ he lifts his eyes
to catch mine on a hook of seriousness,
‘but nothing of these meetings must be breathed.
Not who attends, or what is said. Agreed?
Swear on your word.’
Thus we speak freely here,’ he lifts his eyes
to catch mine on a hook of seriousness,
‘but nothing of these meetings must be breathed.
Not who attends, or what is said. Agreed?
Swear on your word.’
‘Upon my life I swear!’
I speak with a rush of passion. Raleigh smiles.
‘The word of a gentleman is good enough.’
‘The word of a gentleman is good enough.’
And in that word, the wide world opened up.
As Sir Walter Raleigh completed the winding in,
I felt so close to Court that I could taste
the powdery kiss of my good Sovereign’s hand.
As Sir Walter Raleigh completed the winding in,
I felt so close to Court that I could taste
the powdery kiss of my good Sovereign’s hand.
‘The Queen delights’ (he sucks) ‘in clever men’;
he blows a loop that wobbles in the air.
‘Our full potential as creative beings
requires that we adventure to our souls.
Though we explore the globe, map out the stars,
the greatest mystery remains in here—’
He thumps his chest. ‘Which is where poetry goes.
Tobacco too. Why don’t you stay tonight?
The servants can lay a chamber. Stay, let’s talk
over some venison. I’ll tell the Queen
I’ve fed the master of Mephistopheles.’
he blows a loop that wobbles in the air.
‘Our full potential as creative beings
requires that we adventure to our souls.
Though we explore the globe, map out the stars,
the greatest mystery remains in here—’
He thumps his chest. ‘Which is where poetry goes.
Tobacco too. Why don’t you stay tonight?
The servants can lay a chamber. Stay, let’s talk
over some venison. I’ll tell the Queen
I’ve fed the master of Mephistopheles.’
Gallows festoon the road with rotting men,
left as a warning to the vagabond;
their eyes pecked out, the flesh dried into strips,
their bodies gently twisting in the wind.
left as a warning to the vagabond;
their eyes pecked out, the flesh dried into strips,
their bodies gently twisting in the wind.
I am struck dumb. Expelled into the air
like the nation’s cough, because there is no cure
for the liberty of thought it won’t endure,
for certain uncertainties it cannot bear.
like the nation’s cough, because there is no cure
for the liberty of thought it won’t endure,
for certain uncertainties it cannot bear.
The truth is silent and the lie believed;
all through man’s history, this gaping gulf.
The lamb is slaughtered to preserve the wolf.
The son of God is drying on a tree.
all through man’s history, this gaping gulf.
The lamb is slaughtered to preserve the wolf.
The son of God is drying on a tree.
It’s small beers and a trencher at the Lamb.
Three fools: Tom Watson, Thomas Nashe, and me,
Watson a little thin since his release.
‘Two Toms and a Kit,’ Greene called us once, half cut.
A very feline crew. But quite without
a cat-like wariness, gold blinking eyes
that take the world in, opting not to speak.
Three fools: Tom Watson, Thomas Nashe, and me,
Watson a little thin since his release.
‘Two Toms and a Kit,’ Greene called us once, half cut.
A very feline crew. But quite without
a cat-like wariness, gold blinking eyes
that take the world in, opting not to speak.
A celebratory day, a guzzling day.
A day to be remembered at one’s death,
exceptional. For it was on that day,
full of lamb cobbler and my latest play,
friend of Sir Walter, satisfied to be
the tutor of the maybe future queen,
that I tipped my chair back, lighting up my pipe
to savour its sweetness balancing sour hops,
and seeing a man’s face crumple, loud declared,
‘All those who love not tobacco and booze are fools.’
A day to be remembered at one’s death,
exceptional. For it was on that day,
full of lamb cobbler and my latest play,
friend of Sir Walter, satisfied to be
the tutor of the maybe future queen,
that I tipped my chair back, lighting up my pipe
to savour its sweetness balancing sour hops,
and seeing a man’s face crumple, loud declared,
‘All those who love not tobacco and booze are fools.’
‘Tobacco and boys?’ Nashe laughed. He was half deaf,
the close ear dull. ‘Dear post, tobacco and booze!
But boys go just as well with sweet Virginia
pressed into a pipe.’
the close ear dull. ‘Dear post, tobacco and booze!
But boys go just as well with sweet Virginia
pressed into a pipe.’
Misheard, offstage,
the quote that would define me for an age.
To Pan, the God of Shepherds, Fontainebleau.
Mercury sends his greetings. Please excuse,
if this should meet unfriendly eyes, the stop
of rhyme to force them skywards. I have news
of a Spanish metaphor. This, I will swap
if this should meet unfriendly eyes, the stop
of rhyme to force them skywards. I have news
of a Spanish metaphor. This, I will swap
for whatever letters you can bring this ghost
that might not find him safely otherwise.
Risk no one, yet deliver the enclosed
to the man whose servant stabbed a poet’s eye,
that might not find him safely otherwise.
Risk no one, yet deliver the enclosed
to the man whose servant stabbed a poet’s eye,
that perjured eye whose sharp continued sight
sees nothing, lately, but the worst of men
and longs to feel the beam of friendship’s light
break from the clouds and fall on him again.
sees nothing, lately, but the worst of men
and longs to feel the beam of friendship’s light
break from the clouds and fall on him again.
A man condemned to silence may still hear.
Speak to me softly. Lest the ghouls appear.
Speak to me softly. Lest the ghouls appear.
The night is very silent. Though the days
are marked by the dull percussion of the miles
away from you, the night brings me up close
to its empty collar and breathes your absence there.
A blow in the chest. A heaviness of air
that I must carry with me, to my bed,
rather than mistress, lover, drunken friend.
Forgive me. At times, I almost sense your face
in front of mine, and bring it to my lips,
only to see myself the foolish man
in the window’s mirror. Love. You know my heart:
so quietly murdered, yet it beats as loud
as a funeral drum that sounds the death of kings
when I feign sleep and, when I dare your name,
leaps lively as a trout caught on its fate –
so quiet for some, but far beyond dead things.
are marked by the dull percussion of the miles
away from you, the night brings me up close
to its empty collar and breathes your absence there.
A blow in the chest. A heaviness of air
that I must carry with me, to my bed,
rather than mistress, lover, drunken friend.
Forgive me. At times, I almost sense your face
in front of mine, and bring it to my lips,
only to see myself the foolish man
in the window’s mirror. Love. You know my heart:
so quietly murdered, yet it beats as loud
as a funeral drum that sounds the death of kings
when I feign sleep and, when I dare your name,
leaps lively as a trout caught on its fate –
so quiet for some, but far beyond dead things.
Where are you now? And do you sit, like me,
endlessly conjuring your lost friend’s face?
Or do you sup and laugh with newer friends,
more cautious friends, who would not court disgrace?
endlessly conjuring your lost friend’s face?
Or do you sup and laugh with newer friends,
more cautious friends, who would not court disgrace?
I spill out words, more words. Where do they go?
I see them landed in a distant pond
and sunk to the bottom, covered up with silt,
then seen no more.
I see them landed in a distant pond
and sunk to the bottom, covered up with silt,
then seen no more.
It seems I have no breath
if I’m kept from all reaction: if a puff
on my palm does not bounce back to stroke my face
then I am truly dead. And so I wait
to hear that I am missed.
on my palm does not bounce back to stroke my face
then I am truly dead. And so I wait
to hear that I am missed.
This damnable silence
that I agreed to, bargaining for my life.
To do what? I forget. Then I remember.
To write. To write. To write. To write. To write.
To do what? I forget. Then I remember.
To write. To write. To write. To write. To write.
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