My Shakespeare

He’s in every lover who ever
Stood alone beneath a window
In every jealous whispered word
In every ghost that will not rest
He’s in every father with a favourite
Every eye that stops to linger
On what someone else has got
And feels the tightening in their chest

He’s in every young man growing boastful
Every worn out elder, drunk all day
Muttering false prophecies and
Squandering their lot
He’s there – in every mix-up
That spirals far out
Of control – and never seems to end
Even when it's beginnings are forgot

He’s in every girl who ever used her
Wit's who ever did her best
In every vain admirer
Every passionate, ambitious social climber
And in every misheard word that
Ever led to tempers fraying
Every pawn that moves exactly as
The player wants it to
And still remains convinced that
It’s not playing

He’s in every star crossed lover
In every thought that ever
Set your teeth on edge
In every breathless hero
Stepping closer to the
Ledge, his is the method in our madness
As pure as the driven snow – his is the
Hair standing on end
He saw that all that glittered
Was not gold he
Knew we hadn’t slept a wink, and that
Our hearts were upon our sleeves
And that the beast with two backs had
Us all upon our knees as
We fought fire with fire, he knew that
Too much of a good thing
Can leave you up in arms, the
Pen is mightier than the sword, still
His words seem to sing our
Names as they strike, and his is the
Milk of human kindness, warm enough to
Break the ice – his
The green eyed monster, in a pickle, still
Discretion is the better part
Of valour, his letters with their
Arms around each other's shoulders
Swagger towards the ends of their
Sentences, pleased with what they’ve done
His words are the setting for our
Stories – he has become
A poet who poetics have embedded
Themselves deep within the
Fabric of our language, he’s in our mouths
His words have tangled round our
Own and given rise to expressions so
Effective in expressing how we feel
We cant imagine how we’d feel without them

See – he’s less the tights
And garters – more the
Sons demanding answers from the
Absence of their fathers
The hot darkness of your last embrace
He’s in the laughter of the night before
The tightened jaw of the morning after
He’s in us part and parcel of
Our Royals and our rascals
He’s more than something
Taught in classrooms
In language that’s hard to understand
He’s more than a feeling of inadequacy
When we sit for our exams
He’s in every wise woman
Every pitiful villain
Every great king, every sore
Loser, every fake tear
His legacy exists in the life that
Lives in everything he’s written
And me, I see him everywhere
He’s my Shakespeare