{"id":1582,"date":"2014-11-24T17:40:53","date_gmt":"2014-11-24T07:40:53","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/?p=1582"},"modified":"2016-06-24T11:34:12","modified_gmt":"2016-06-24T01:34:12","slug":"death-dildoes-and-daffodils-a-queer-winters-tale-full-paper","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/?p=1582","title":{"rendered":"Death, Dildoes and Daffodils: a queer winter’s tale (full paper)"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Screenshot<\/a>A little while ago, I delivered a creative paper at the ANZSA (Australia and New Zealand Shakespeare Association<\/a>).<\/p>\n

I posted the abstract for this paper on my blog a while ago<\/a>, and thought I’d follow up by sharing the text of the performance.<\/p>\n

The piece is an examination of the 16 year ‘gap’ in the play, during which Hermione is absent from the court, and Perdita is believed dead, abandoned on an island by Paulina’s husband, Antigonus.<\/p>\n

I’m not much of a performer, so quite possibly the text-only version is the better way to experience the paper \ud83d\ude42<\/p>\n

There are some bits in this that are direct quotations from Shakespeare’s play, The<\/em>\u00a0Winter’s Tale<\/em>. I give the act\/scene citations at the end of the paper.<\/p>\n

\n

1. This ungentle business<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The night before my husband\u2019s death, Hermione<\/p>\n

appeared before him:<\/p>\n

\u2026 a vessel of \u2026 sorrow, <\/em><\/p>\n

So fill\u2019d and so becoming: in pure white robes, <\/em><\/p>\n

Like very sanctity.[1]<\/strong><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This vision of the good queen spoke to him, saying:<\/p>\n

\u2026 for the babe <\/em><\/p>\n

Is counted lost for ever, Perdita,<\/em><\/p>\n

I prithee, call’t. For this ungentle business <\/em><\/p>\n

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see <\/em><\/p>\n

Thy wife Paulina more.[2]<\/strong><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Antigonus, my husband, had been sent by her<\/em><\/strong> husband<\/p>\n

to expose her newborn daughter in the desert,<\/p>\n

that it might be suckled, or devoured, by wildness.<\/p>\n

So men send other men to deal with our fair spawn.<\/p>\n

They dream of magical beings: of ravens and wolves<\/p>\n

who will suckle, rage or ravage our innocent babes.<\/p>\n

They send fools to distant oracles, to glean the wisdom<\/p>\n

that cannot be found in their own untrusting hearts.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

He lay the child on the earth while a storm raged<\/p>\n

saying she was \u2026 like to have<\/em><\/p>\n

A lullaby too rough: [3]<\/strong><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

And here, another apparition came: a bear,<\/p>\n

great and furious as a storm. She pursued him<\/p>\n

along the shore, mocking his indignant roars<\/p>\n

with murderous fury of her own.<\/p>\n

Some say it was a wild thing that pursued him\u2014<\/p>\n

a native of Bohemia–but \u2018twas Callisto, mother<\/p>\n

of Arcas, who stepped from the heavens to the earth<\/p>\n

to wreak maternal vengeance.<\/p>\n

Her ears and teeth were made of stars, her eyes<\/p>\n

and gut and claws. She gutted Antigonus like<\/p>\n

a fish, left him wriggling on the storm-wreck\u2019d shore.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

2. Your first death<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The night of your first death, I placed a pillow \u2018neath your neck,<\/p>\n

spread your bride\u2019s pale skirts across the stone, and<\/p>\n

powdered your pink cheeks with chalk. You lay still<\/p>\n

and cold as death until you heard your husband\u2019s boot<\/p>\n

strike the stones of the chapel floor. No eye but mine<\/p>\n

saw your hand dart out and clasp that of your dead son.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You lay, bridal and innocent. Your belly still half-swole,<\/p>\n

the blood of the childbed staining the tomb on which you lay.<\/p>\n

Leontes knelt at your side, summoned false tears<\/p>\n

and wept for all that his foolishness had wrought.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

I knelt beside him, bent my head to pray<\/p>\n

that your false death would fool the grieving king.<\/p>\n

He took your hand and turned it, held your soft<\/p>\n

fist against his cheek. Oh, but her hand <\/em><\/p>\n

it is still warm<\/em>, he cried.<\/p>\n

It is your hot tears that make it so<\/em>, said I.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

3. Hundred horse chestnut<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

That night, when I smuggled you home, there was a storm<\/p>\n

And we, like the Aragon queen and her hundred knights,<\/p>\n

took shelter beneath the ancient elm that stands<\/p>\n

between the palace and my modest home.<\/p>\n

Just two we were. And you so weary with all you had lost–<\/p>\n

A son, a daughter, a kingdom, and a husband\u2014<\/p>\n

that you could barely stand for weeping. I gave you<\/p>\n

my shoulder, held you fast against me, and watched<\/p>\n

rain drip from the catkins. Look here<\/em>, I said.<\/p>\n

They are as soft and<\/em> useless as my husband\u2019s<\/em> quill<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Though these, no doubt, will bear some fruit.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

4. A quiver? A diletto?<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

By the time we reached the house it was dark<\/p>\n

And all the fires were out. I wrapped you in my bearskin<\/p>\n

and settled you in a chair by the fire while I knelt<\/p>\n

and blew the embers into flames. The room was dark,<\/p>\n

and muddled. As the flames caught they threw<\/p>\n

strange shadows on the walls. So many books<\/em>,<\/p>\n

you said, and stood to run your hand across<\/p>\n

their spines. So many words. <\/em>You lifted up a paper<\/p>\n

from the desk. A dozen more spilled to the floor<\/p>\n

and something heavier among them. Something<\/p>\n

unfamiliar. What is this?<\/em> you asked. I turned and<\/p>\n

stood, tried to take it from you hand. A quiver? <\/em>I said.<\/p>\n

A diletto? <\/em>You brought it to the fireside, knelt<\/p>\n

to hold it in the light, and laughed. A quiver?<\/em><\/p>\n

For what arrows, sweet Paulina? To slay what<\/em><\/p>\n

beast? <\/em>Your face, turned up towards me,<\/p>\n

was flushed with more warmth than a fire<\/p>\n

can induce. You stood, and held the implement<\/p>\n

against your groin. Twirled it heavily. Shall<\/em><\/p>\n

I slay you then, with this your weapon? Or<\/em><\/p>\n

are you slain already? <\/em>I grasped the thing and<\/p>\n

pulled you closer. The leather soft and supple<\/p>\n

in my hand. Look here, <\/em>I said, and showed you<\/p>\n

how the thing was hollow and how, within<\/p>\n

its vulgar depths, were hidden quills and ink<\/p>\n

and wax. Scrolled treason and translated
\nsedition. You frowned. I laughed. It is <\/em><\/p>\n

my cunning quiver, good queen. The one I wear<\/em><\/p>\n

when travelling as a man. When dealing in<\/em><\/p>\n

secrets and trading in lies. It is also a fair<\/em><\/p>\n

hiding place for the letters I carry, the ballads<\/em><\/p>\n

and pamphlets that cannot be found<\/em><\/p>\n

in a good man\u2019s pocket. <\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Are you, then, fair<\/em><\/p>\n

Paul, a good man? <\/em>you said.<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I am your man,
\ngood queen. And your woman, both. I<\/em><\/p>\n

will be whichever you most urgently require.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Come then, <\/em>you said, and prick<\/em><\/p>\n

my conscience with your quill.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

5. With lullaby, be thou content<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

There is a walled garden in my home. Inside, a parterre<\/p>\n

with six angled beds and paths that meet, not at a fountain<\/p>\n

but a stone dais. Once, there was a statue in the centre:<\/p>\n

Two doves atop a globe, held aloft by a marble maid.<\/p>\n

But she, like many a maid, fell one night and was removed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Confined to the house for so many years, this<\/p>\n

was where you took your walks. The gravel paths<\/p>\n

your meditation\u2019s groove. Here, is where<\/p>\n

you mourned your son. Two paths that cross,<\/p>\n

and cross again. Here, your daughter\u2019s loss was marked<\/p>\n

in miles of patient circumnavigation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Some nights I woke to an empty bed, to the<\/p>\n

soft crunch of gravel \u2018neath your bare feet.<\/p>\n

To the sound of your voice, singing a lullaby<\/p>\n

to the distant moon. Sweet daughter<\/em>, you sang,<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eke lullaby, my lovely child,<\/em><\/p>\n

My little bird, now take thy rest,<\/em><\/p>\n

Since death is long, and never sleeps<\/em><\/p>\n

Keep close thy life, for so is best.<\/em><\/p>\n

With lullaby be thou content,<\/em><\/p>\n

With lullaby thy fears relent,<\/em><\/p>\n

Let others fear the wolf that bites<\/em><\/p>\n

Thou art too sweet for death\u2019s delights.[4]<\/a><\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

6. A glottal stop<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I was thinking of you as I walked along the Linguaglossa Road<\/p>\n

towards home. Thinking, too, of some fair rhyme to please you<\/p>\n

A linguist\u2019s pastime this: to make a bawd\u2019s joke of my profession<\/p>\n

A woman with a cunning tongue? A cunning woman\u2019s tongue?<\/p>\n

A cunning woman on a linguist\u2019s path? A glossia, a glottal<\/p>\n

stop.<\/p>\n

And stop I did, for there beneath the hundred horse chestnut you stood,<\/p>\n

or leaned, while vile Autolycus \u2013 that liar, that thief \u2013 placed his lips<\/p>\n

on your fair cheek, and fossicked with his hand inside your pocket.<\/p>\n

I heard you cry-\u2013too faint, too false\u2014and saw you draw away.<\/p>\n

Against his breast you pressed a letter. He turned away, the letter fell.<\/p>\n

You took his arm and pulled him back. Put the letter in his hand.<\/p>\n

Purple paper, yellow ribbons. A red heart for a seal. Oh, love,<\/p>\n

good queen, fair Hermione, what false beribboned heart is this?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

7. The postman\u2019s fee<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

It was early spring in our fifteenth year. I came<\/p>\n

upon you on your knees in the walled garden.<\/p>\n

The bare earth turned, and dark. New beds<\/p>\n

pegged out with stakes and string. A wide hat<\/p>\n

on your head, and your skirts plucked up<\/p>\n

like a shepherdess\u2019s daughter. At your hip a<\/p>\n

stringed bag, like a miniature net, filled with<\/p>\n

bulbs. Bent like a crab you moved along, dibbling<\/p>\n

in the soil and burying, one by one, your<\/p>\n

treasures. How now, what\u2019s this? <\/em>I called,<\/p>\n

coming in from the road in my gentleman\u2019s<\/p>\n

attire.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s rosemary and rue; these keep<\/em><\/p>\n

Seeming and savour all the winter long:<\/em> [5]<\/strong><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

These two are for grace, and for remembrance.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Have you need of herbs to remember me?<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You smiled up at me, and caught the kiss<\/p>\n

I leaned down to plant.<\/p>\n

Not you,<\/p>\n

fair Paul, it is my daughter this garden<\/p>\n

does remember. These are her wishes, her<\/p>\n

sweet blossoms, planted in our private place.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You stood, and gestured round the partierre. Here,<\/p>\n

there will be \u2026 daffodils, <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

That come before the swallow dares, and take <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

That die unmarried, ere they can behold <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Bight Phoebus in his strength\u2014a malady <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The flower-de-luce being one!<\/em><\/strong> O, with these blooms, <\/em><\/p>\n

I will make garlands, for my sweet daughter, <\/em><\/p>\n

To strew her o’er and o’er![6]<\/strong><\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

It has been fifteen years<\/em>, I said, since that small girl<\/em><\/p>\n

was left in some forsaken place. My husband\u2019s<\/em><\/p>\n

bones returned without his flesh to bind them.<\/em><\/p>\n

Your daughter\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Perdita. She has a name. Pray call her by\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n

I knelt beside you. Lifted a moist handful<\/p>\n

of soil and inhaled. Good earth, it was, and<\/p>\n

rich with life. As she, your lost daughter,<\/p>\n

was not. Hermione, <\/em>I said. Dear heart.<\/em><\/p>\n

It has been fifteen years. We\u2019ve had no word.<\/em><\/p>\n

No letter. You must let go of this false hope. <\/em><\/p>\n

Your daughter is death\u2019s daughter now.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>[Herm] You<\/em><\/strong> have had no sign<\/em>,<\/p>\n

you said, and plucked a bulb from your pocket,<\/p>\n

passed it into my hand. But here, look<\/em><\/p>\n

what she has sent to me.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Where did these come from?<\/em> I said. These<\/em><\/p>\n

bulbs and seeds, these marigolds and marjoram?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

From Perdita, <\/em>you said. From Autolycus.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

THAT thief! That\u2014<\/em>I could not speak. All at<\/p>\n

once I saw you \u2018neath the hundred horse chestnut<\/p>\n

your hand pressing a letter to his heart. His mouth<\/p>\n

on your fair cheek.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oh, Paul,<\/em> you said. Don\u2019t<\/em><\/p>\n

be a fool. Do you think I would kiss a man\u2014a man<\/em><\/p>\n

like that\u2014when I have you?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I saw you.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You saw what, exactly? \u2026 Oh. Oh! <\/em>You put down<\/p>\n

your dibbler and your bulb. Stood and took<\/p>\n

my hands in your own. I nearly wept, to see<\/p>\n

your skin so dark, your nails so broken<\/p>\n

and stained. Oh, Paul. It is not such a wicked secret.<\/em><\/p>\n

All these years, I have met him \u2018neath the<\/em><\/p>\n

chestnut tree to pass him letters, that is<\/em><\/p>\n

true. And every year he takes them, for a kiss. <\/em><\/p>\n

His postman\u2019s fee, he calls it.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Some postman! <\/em>I cried.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

You wiped at my hot face with your sleeve,<\/p>\n

and smiled as though I were a child. He is a postman<\/em><\/p>\n

and a peddlar<\/em>, you said, and<\/em> the deliverer <\/em><\/p>\n

of my letters to Perdita.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

How can he deliver letters to a lost child?<\/em><\/p>\n

He might as well deliver clouds to angels!<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You reached into your pocket, then,<\/p>\n

and drew out a tightly-folded note.<\/p>\n

A girls\u2019 hand\u2014with a heart to dot the i\u2014<\/p>\n

To Mother<\/em>, the letter said, from Perdita<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t understand<\/em>, I said. I thought she was\u2014<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You nodded, and we turned towards our home.<\/p>\n

The light was fading, and the earth grew cold.<\/p>\n

Familiar stars glittered in the sky: fair Callisto<\/p>\n

and her child. Come inside, <\/em>you said. I\u2019ll light<\/em><\/p>\n

the fire. There is more I have to tell you.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

8. Dear Winter<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Dear Winter, come you further in, fingering the wormholes of Hermione’s heart?<\/p>\n

Sixteen times she and I have wintered in this hall, warmed each other’s beds.<\/p>\n

She has risen over me, ridden high as a conqueror on the waves of my flesh<\/p>\n

And I, divided, have fallen eagerly beneath each victory cry.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Autolycus, that finest of the mortal thieves, could not take her hand from mine.<\/p>\n

But you, Death, (Shall I speak your True Name, now that you have come so near?)<\/p>\n

Have sown hard seeds in her breast. She swells and hardens in my hand;<\/p>\n

Shadows bloom on her skin and death’s cold snow rushes in at every breath.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bulbs wintering in the soil do not dream of the garden’s destruction;<\/p>\n

The seeds you planted in her breast will never bloom. Not on my watch.<\/p>\n

She has given enough already. My love is sharp and narrow as a sword;<\/p>\n

Hot as the bee’s barbed sting. I will cut your canker out.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

9. breast, bone, belly<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

How quick, how cruel, how deep Death came<\/p>\n

Burrowing from breast, to bone, to belly.<\/p>\n

No knife, no poultice, no physic could detach<\/p>\n

her from you. God knows we tried. But at each<\/p>\n

incursion our enemy turned, laughed. Sweet<\/p>\n

as your sickly breath, Death smiled at our frail<\/p>\n

efforts. Too soon we knew that there was nothing<\/p>\n

more to do. You were the first to call a stop.<\/p>\n

Stop. These are my last days,<\/em> you said, do not<\/em><\/p>\n

fill them with false hope<\/em>. I want, instead,<\/p>\n

to plant a tree. To see Perdita\u2019s bulbs<\/p>\n

put in. The walled garden, then, became<\/p>\n

your final theatre.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It was late afternoon<\/p>\n

in our sixteenth year. Autolycus came<\/p>\n

upon us, working in the walled garden.<\/p>\n

The beds were bright with flowers and you<\/p>\n

sat watching while I weeded the daffodils.<\/p>\n

How now, what\u2019s this? <\/em>he called,<\/p>\n

coming in from the road in gentleman\u2019s<\/p>\n

attire. Why so quiet, why so still,<\/em><\/p>\n

When I bring good news, old friend?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Good news? <\/em>you said, and I saw that old,<\/p>\n

false hope rise in your cheeks.<\/p>\n

Yes, yes!<\/em><\/p>\n

he said, trotting along the paths, plucking<\/p>\n

rue and rosemary. Think you this would<\/em><\/p>\n

make a pretty posy for my buttonhole?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>[Herm] What news?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

[Auto] News? Oh! A wedding, a resurrection, a quiet<\/em><\/p>\n

revolution. Perdita is coming home,<\/em><\/p>\n

a suitor in her pocket and a king at her <\/em><\/p>\n

heels. Her father suspects nothing, but soon <\/em><\/p>\n

his kingdom will be hers. A ghost princess<\/em><\/p>\n

returns from the desert of wolves and bears,<\/em><\/p>\n

and a dead queen, too, must soon<\/em><\/p>\n

be resurrected.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[Herm] Perdita is coming home?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[Auto] And you are discovered, good queen. The king<\/em><\/p>\n

has ears and eyes in the hundred horse chestnut<\/em><\/p>\n

and in the physic\u2019s chambers. In the walls of this<\/em><\/p>\n

your garden, too. He is coming. She returns. And<\/em><\/p>\n

all that was once hidden will too soon be revealed.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

10. Are they near?<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The last time we were alone, you were standing<\/p>\n

on the dais in our walled garden. Perdita\u2019s blooms<\/p>\n

growing at your feet. It was late afternoon and you<\/p>\n

were weary. Are they near? <\/em>you said. I looked<\/p>\n

along the road and saw dust, rising in the distance.<\/p>\n

They are coming, <\/em>I said, and drew the curtain closed<\/p>\n

around you. There, as though in a lover\u2019s tent,<\/p>\n

I lay one last kiss on your cheek. Your flesh<\/p>\n

was cold. I could almost believe you a statue.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Are they near? <\/em> you said. I listened for the beat<\/p>\n

of horses, for the rattle of the harness.<\/p>\n

They are near, <\/em>I said, and bent to arrange the<\/p>\n

long hem of the chiton at your feet. Remember<\/em>,<\/p>\n

when they come, you must not breathe, must not<\/em><\/p>\n

blush.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/em>[Herm] Until you give the word: until<\/em><\/p>\n

you say \u2018perceive she stirs\u2019. You will follow us<\/em><\/p>\n

to the palace?<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Yes, <\/em>I said. I will follow you wherever you are<\/em><\/p>\n

moved to go, so long as you have need of me.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

[Herm] Are they near? <\/em>you said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I heard the scuff of sandals in the road, smelt<\/p>\n

leather, lilacs and horses. They are here<\/em>, I said.<\/p>\n

I could not meet your eyes, but you, in any case,<\/p>\n

were looking towards some other love. Long<\/p>\n

lost, and now returned.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

11. Your second death<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The night of your second death, I placed a pillow \u2018neath your neck<\/p>\n

pulled the sheets up over your cancer-wasted body, and<\/p>\n

kissed your pale cheeks. You looked so warm, so lifelike,<\/p>\n

I was sure you would wake when you heard the strike<\/p>\n

of Perdita\u2019s boot on the stone-flagged floor. No heart but mine<\/p>\n

broke when you did not move. Did not take a breath.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You lay, peaceful. Ruined. Your chest flat and swaddled,<\/p>\n

your face bald of curls, or lashes or brows.<\/p>\n

Perdita knelt at your side, took your unfamiliar hand<\/p>\n

and wept for all her father\u2019s foolishness had wrought.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I knelt beside her, bent my head to pray<\/p>\n

that your second death would be as fleeting as the first.<\/p>\n

I took your hand and turned it, upwards like a tulip<\/p>\n

or a daffodil. Kissed the tips of each pale petal.<\/p>\n

Oh, but your hand, it is still warm! <\/em>I cried.<\/p>\n

Perdita put her arm around me, drew me away.<\/p>\n

It is your hot tears that makes it so, <\/em>she said.<\/p>\n

12.\u00a0To sum up, honestly<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

To sum up. Honestly,<\/p>\n

I am not very good at sum-<\/p>\n

ming up.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

As a linguist I was trained to strive<\/p>\n

for exactitude; to believe that<\/p>\n

rigorous imitation \u2013 without residue, without<\/p>\n

loss \u2013 is possible.<\/p>\n

But here it is, the residue of you, which does<\/p>\n

not, can not, never will<\/p>\n

exist again. It moves like<\/p>\n

a daffodil like<\/p>\n

a doxy like<\/p>\n

red blood in this:<\/p>\n

my winter\u2019s tale.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

REFERENCES<\/p>\n

Jankowski, Theodora A. \u201c. . . in the Lesbian Void: Woman-Woman Eroticism in Shakespeare\u2018s Plays.\u201d in A Feminist Companion to Shakespeare<\/em>. Ed. Dympna Callaghan. Oxford: Blackwell, 2001. 299-319.<\/p>\n

[1]<\/a> III, iii, 1514-1516<\/p>\n

[2]<\/a> III, iii, 1524-1528<\/p>\n

[3]<\/a> III, iii, 1546-1547<\/p>\n

[4]<\/a> This lullaby is very, very loosely based on the rhythm and rhyme scheme of \u2018Gascoigne\u2019s Lullaby\u2019 by George Gascoigne (1534? -1577)<\/p>\n

[5]<\/a> IV, iii, 1943-1944<\/p>\n

[6]<\/a> IV, iii, 1997-2008<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A little while ago, I delivered a creative paper at the ANZSA (Australia and New Zealand Shakespeare Association). I posted the abstract for this paper on my blog a while ago, and thought I’d follow up by sharing the text of the performance. The piece is an examination of the 16 year ‘gap’ in the…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1586,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"jetpack_seo_schema_type":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[653,193,167,667,288],"tags":[676,868,869,675,709,668,212],"class_list":["post-1582","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-academic-and-other-research","category-on-reading","category-on-writing","category-research","category-short-works","tag-anzsa","tag-conference-presentation","tag-perdita","tag-queer","tag-shakespeare","tag-the-winters-tale","tag-william-shakespeare"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4LH1G-pw","jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/11\/Screenshot-2014-11-24-17.39.00.png?fit=1280%2C800","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1582","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1582"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1582\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1587,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1582\/revisions\/1587"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1586"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1582"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1582"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.perilousadventures.net\/blog\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1582"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}