Okay, let’s move forward in time from Petrarch, and north
from Italy for today’s National Poetry Month entry. In short, let’s have a
little some-some from Christopher Marlowe.
There was a time when dinosaurs ran all over the earth,
and all we had by way of connectivity were landlines, and you found people and
researched products and services by riffling through a huge softcover tome
called a “telephone directory”, rather than telling Siri, “Call Delilah” or “Ecuadorean
restaurant”.
Back in those dark times, that “telephone directory”
would list your name, address and telephone number. (There was an “online”
version of this—you called the Information Operator on 411, and s/he [but
mostly she] would read it out for you. That call was free, and as many as you
wanted, BTW. A lot of Ma Bell’s, er, bells and whistles were free then.)
If you were female, you didn’t always want all that data
out there for just everyone to find. So, often a woman would be listed by just
her initial(s) and surname. E.g., “B. Bleu”. But as a safety precaution that
didn’t last long, since whackjobs of all description twigged to the ploy and
still found you with relative ease.
You could always go “non-published” (listing didn’t
appear in the directory, but was available via 411) or “unlisted” (not in the
directory and not given out), but you paid extra for that service.
I didn’t want my contact details out there for the world
and his wife, but I also objected to paying extra for saving them the trouble
of printing and updating my information. (There was a time when I moved right
often.) And I knew that initials-wheeze was completely useless. So I just had
my number listed, no address, under the name of Christopher Marlowe. People who
really knew me would be able to find me; and anyone calling for “Mr. Marlowe”
got the toss pretty quickly.
I chose Marlowe because he was such a rakish, intense,
grab-life-wherever-you-can-get-it, over-the-top kind of guy. Even for the
Elizabethan Age, noted for its flamboyant characters who lit up the sky with
their brilliance. On the artistic front, he was a poet, playwright and
translator, who was considered the top tragedian of his day. He had a strong
influence on his contemporary, William Shakespeare, who took over the title
after Marlowe’s early and mysterious death in 1593.
His plays, frankly, are not for the faint-at-heart,
although his Doctor Faustus is
somewhat less black than some of the others.
In addition to his day job, however, our man Marlowe was
also reportedly a spy, possibly for Sir Francis Walsingham (Elizabeth I’s
spymaster). This is unconfirmed, but there are indicators, and it is my opinion
that he was exactly the sort of man who’d take on such assignments just to
prove to himself that he could do the job so well that no one would know. Also,
because it would be something else to cram into his life.
Marlowe did die young, knifed in what might have been a
bar brawl, or perhaps a contract killing, since he’d been under arrest for proclaiming
atheism just prior to the incident. (That was a capital offense back then. As was
being a Roman Catholic. And other things.) Plus, he might have crossed
Walsingham, which wasn’t good for one’s health.
He was 29, but he’d certainly lived a full life in those
few years. So I’m giving you one of his persuasion poems. If someone ever
quotes to you from this one, you’re in for quite a ride.
“The Passionate Shepherd to his Love”
Come live with
me and be my love,
And we will all
the pleasures prove,
That Valleys,
groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or
steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit
upon the Rocks,
Seeing the
Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow
Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds
sing Madrigals.
And I will make
thee beds of Roses
And a thousand
fragrant posies,
A cap of
flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all
with leaves of Myrtle;
A gown made of
the finest wool
Which from our
pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined
slippers for the cold,
With buckles of
the purest gold;
A belt of straw
and Ivy buds,
With Coral
clasps and Amber studs:
And if these
pleasures may thee move,
Come live with
me, and be my love.
The Shepherds’
Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight
each May-morning:
If these
delights thy mind may move,
Then live with
me, and be my love.
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