Words and Lines

Long-Distance Literature

(on remembering high school)

by Tris Kerslake

How far away I am from Shakespeare who haunts me with melodic lines and voices off. His kings and wars, his whores and drunks were closer then. They sent me greetings.

Though I could not appreciate him properly having letters only in my name, my thoughts were slow, but still he sang to me and smiled at my applause. He liked to move me.

And while his language was a trifle rich with hinted politics that I did not begin to understand, he let me pull his words apart to find the juicy centres. I am addicted.

The letters that he writes, my perfumed lyrics delivered by the book and by his actors in the round, have set me flying through the lesser days upon his gift. Avon is calling.