William Shakespeare
2016, four hundred years of Shakespeare's, and year that shall hearld advent of his successor?
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William Shakespeare left this planet in the year 1616. In approaching 2016, it would be four good centuries since departure of that great bard in world of literature. Why so has mankind failed to, or not discover a successor to that great bard. It took less than three decades for great names in sport, like Micheal Jordan, Diego Maradona, Morris Greene, etc. to be replaced by men of like talent or genius like them: and in such other fields like science, music, art, etc. discoveries are constantly being made, and great names are being succeeded. But, in world of literature, why have mankind not found the Lionel Messi of William Shakespeare? For soon to be four hundred years space of time, what has held back the spirit of men from aspiring too to that summit of immortality where that most cebrated name in literature this long has reign unchallenged as sole monarch? Not many who read this would have the courage to respond in a way that does not admits of that same predictable subservience that ever defers to and would not do less than flatter the name of the great bard for preserving this long on earth his unrivaled station. Something new and outstanding is approaching. The long reign of that greatest bard soon and in this decade shall greet its conclusion. If no lips this prediction attempts, this which does, has hands and instrument to furnish the proof of this grand forecast it has made. What is the furnished proof? What else should be but evidence of rare execution and feat that may be presented to rank with and contest that of that long idolized demi-god of literature. I shall throw down here a single scene of recent drafted play, which seen by any eye that can discern traditional poetry and meter, would not doubt convince of the gravity of the momentous upheaval soon to be experienced, and that would alter forever the landscape of world literature. The intent of the display to be done here is to, even in this season when none aware are of reality that is coming, assay amidst some of the so-called sentinels keeping watch on the battlement of world literature, to find if a man amidst them has been proficient in his task. I will exhibit a Scene of a recently crafted play. What man there be out there that is versed in traditional meter and the works of Shakespeare should render the favour of telling how or not the shown single Scene of the play ranks with that of our greatest bard. I am typing this not from a computer, but from a hand-held device, hence I am not afforded good chance to see and edit some of what I have scrawled here. . Below shall be seen the Scene of one of the plays that, before this decade expires, shall shall stand to compare with, contest, and be the Birsmarck against that royal fleet of volume that on the ocean of literature on behalf of England has for centuries reigned supreme.

7-30am 25-3-2014

CURTAIN. In same place. An open field of work. Curtain reveals many Hebrew slaves pulling with long cords two massive stones. Among them Joshua, a Stone-cutter, working on a huge sculpture, Lylia, Old Yochabed, and several Egyptian task-masters, using well their whips. Joshua leaps from high sculpture he was busy with to meet Lylia.

I thought you would not
Descend from the rock you are sculpting here!
Why do you make me wait with waterskin
Under this harsh glare of the sun? I may say,
On pores of my skin, the sun's lapping tongue
Has drank more cups than what is in this goatskin?

Water first, my love,
Before words. By this thawing heat, my tongue
Has been so discated, within its roof
The wilted words scarce have strength to trudge pass
The threshold of lips.
(Lylia hands him the waterskin.)

Will you drain with one gulp
This brimed up waterskin? Leave some drops yet.
Your fellow Hebrew slaves there be in this place
Whose throats too are dry. Will you empty it?
To quench your thirst, will it take the full flood
Of the rushing Nile?

Not flood of the Nile,
But on sweet kiss from rose-flower on your lips!
(He draws near her for a kiss.)

Be cautious, my love.
This is no hidden spot; we may been spied.
Hold back your lips. We shall cull time and place
Meet for this dalliance. One and thousand eyes
Attend this place: and from them I dread the shaft
That may pierce from the jealous glance of Dothan
If he sights you so near and daringly close
To flower of my modesty.

Why say you that?
What have you to fear with that carcass-eater?

The way he looks at me
Make my heart stumble from straight-walk of her beats.
Each and all instance he sights me near beard-face,
There is aught in his eye that blabs to mine,
As if to say, " I have caught you in the act!"
And as he trudges by me my ears will pick
The audible growl from his throat, that makes me feel,
As if I am his wife, a tinge of guilt
From all such overtures of his jealousy.

If he dares touch you with his paws,
No, dare sniff with his nostrils nectar from your skin,
I will strangle him!

And doing that you bring death
To your own innocent soul and mine too!

Then I would have done both of us
Most laudable favour that soul of a slave
In wobbling years of gainless bondage should crave.
It better is that man denies himself life,
Than suffer his soul bear the yoke of breathing,
While stretching on the torso of more days
The seasons of anomaly and grief.

You say this now,
Even in this days, when the air in Goshen
Is so thick with words of hope for our freedom,
What man draws it in lungs, at once becomes
Inspired with zeal, as if he savoured fragrance
From the true earthiness of liberty?

Earthiness of liberty
That soon is made corrupt by odious breath
That lips of perfidy fart from some drawn from our stock.
(Enter Dothan with several Egyptian tasks-masters, all brandishing whips.)
Lo, here he comes. That same man whose veins flow
With Isreal's blood; but whose deeds quite belie the claim:
For, all drops of act from his character
Confess him an uncircumcised Egyptian.
Let us the while part sandals from each other,
Ere sighting you by me, makes envy glare
That hard from Dothan, it incites me to do
What remnant of my days shall ever rue.

Dothan:(To all the slaves.)
Put your spines to it!
This is demanding drudgery that muscles
And hardened sinews only do appease.
It would not yield to slothfulness from you.
Call out the fathers and sons of your strength,
Not their soft mothers or more fickle sisters.
Pull hard the cords, you thousand sweating hands!
At the relief of your sweat-spouting tendons,
This day whole bulk of these two stones must trudge
The two and half miles to spot that calls them.
Pull, pull and pull! Strain till your elbows bleed!
Pull, pull and pull! Strain till your knee-caps snap!
And to rebound that sound in triumph of work,
I will applaud with thunders from my palms.
(To the task-masters.)
Task-masters, where you find unwanted languor,
Sting him with harsh whip; and inform him of,
With pratting weals on the papyrus of his flesh,
How here unwelcome is the sight of sloth.
(To Yachabed and other old women.)
Old hags, go under the rocks. Pour more grease
Beneath them, that the friction may be less;
And they may all the more smoothly glide home.
(Yochabed goes under one of the huge rocks. She applies grease under it. Her apron-strings is caught under the huge rock.)

Yochabed:(To Lydia.)
Lylia! Lylia!
Bid the men halt the movement of the rock.
My apron-strings have been caught under it.
Try me hard as I may, I cannot move
From this spot I am; that as soon may be,
When yon approaching huge rock brings to this
Its breast for hard embrace, my sudden tomb,
If I am not released from this entrap.

Stop the movement of the rocks!
Halt you the motion of the massive rocks!

Why do you howl that word?

Behold, an old hand
Has been caught by her apron-strings beneath the stone.

Should we halt
The glide of both rocks borne by tide of sweat
From the brows of five thousand slave-hands here,
But on account of one old hag of drudge?
(To the slaves.)
Halt not you slaves the motion of the rocks.
Keep them on the move. Both of these huge rocks,
At this particular spot shall embrace:
And if that they do, they grind to dust old bones,
What loss do we record? Who need shed a tear
When some decaying bone is pulverised;
And made be one with the dust of the earth
Unto which too much years has made it nearest kin?

Stop the rocks, Hebrew men, stop the rocks!
A woman of your blood shall be smashed by them!

Seal you now this lips;
And hold back the rush of words sueing from them,
Else I will do it for you with my knockles!

Halt the rocks, my Hebrew brothers!
Halt you the rocks, before their motion race
To crush one old as your mothers at home!
(The men stop pulling the cords. The motion of both rocks are halted. Dothan hits Lylia on the lips. Joshau descends from the huge sculpture. He attacks Dothan. Some of the Ehyptian task-masters rush at him. He hits one of them. The others assist and overwhelm him.)

Hold him! Sieze him!
He dares strike me; and what is worse, an Egyptian too,
With knockles that call from our broken jaws
This scarlet drops that smear our lips with shame;
And to eyes tell pain of our injury.
As penalty for this crime, one of you draw
A dagger from sheath, and slit fast his throat!
His fellow Hebrew slaves are witnesses
To this offence he has committed here.
It is expedient that response should be harsh
And swift from us, before his fellow slaves
Take this as a good precedent to act
When face with circumstance that semblance bears
With this seen here. The call for punishment
Against a grave wrong done is justified
And current stands, not merely for sake of
Letting reprisal fall on guiltiness,
But more held pertinent to the case of crime,
For sake of deterence, it is made to fly.
(An Egyptian task-master draws out a dagger from sheath.)
Hand me the dagger. This enacted crime
From hand of this slave, is an insult that
Stabs deeper my pride as chief overseer
Of Hebrew slaves, than any man else here.
Hence my hand should hitch more to grasp the hilt;
Whose other keen end I stir now with thrust
For fatal stab of this unrully slave's throat.
(Enter Moses, Baker, chief of the architects, and some other Egyptians and guards.)

Put up that dagger!
What was it that was so amiss in this field
And sweat-bespattered battle-ground of work,
Yourself, a noted marshal of hard labour,
Draws forth with hand this angry glinting steel
To do here mortal harm, to one of the
Adjutants of our worthy enterprise?

Behold, your highness, my lips,
And that of this task-master standing by me.
This crimson stains your eyes percieve on them,
Are not juice from melon fruit we have kissed.
No, it is but the weeping tears from pain,
When this recalcitrant slave we have seized here,
Unleashed on us the beast of violence in him;
And made his rock-hard fist the weapon for
Executing fast his rebellion against law.
Ay, he did smite me and this Egyptian here:
And doing that, as your brave highness know,
He did infringe prevailing law of this realm
In one accasion, but in double fractures.
Hence guilty he stands, and deserves from the
Hand of due retribution one and one deaths.

Moses:(To Joshua.)
Hebrew slave,
Know you not that, for law such as this one
You have infracted, the edge of the law
Is whetted sharp and ready for defaulter?

I do.

Then, why dare snare it
With these two grave defaults and wounds of it?

What I did was informef by
My zeal to save an old woman from death.

What old woman?

That old woman there,
Caught by her apron-strings by that huge rock:
And in same spot, where if she still remains,
The other massive sculptured stone shall grind
Her to fine dust, when it approaches, and
Locks tight embrace with the first one.

Who is the old woman to you?
Is she your mother, or the sister of
Your mother?

She is not my mother.
Though she were not a Hebrew as myself
And Egyptian woman was, face with same plight,
I will respond to help her as I did,
Inspite of here the stinging whips on me;
And heinous prospect of death the dare attracts.

You do not speak like a slave.
This lofty sentiments fall from your lips,
Like golden apple from ignoble branch.
Where stole you this impressive tongue of speech;
And this strong and brave spirit, like to be found
In palace of kings, not under bondman's roof?

God fashioned Adam in his image.
This portrait of a mortal man as slave
And being that is beneath all worthiness,
Is the sustained impression of slave-master
And conqueror; who with superior sword
Is able to subdue; and after that,
Divest his fellow men of dignity;
Stripe them of franchise and invaluable right
To self-determination.

It is the day of all ears,
That should be cull for celebration of hearing,
When from the lips of mere sheep, in place of bleat,
Ennobling and apt articulation is roared!
(He approaches where old Yochabed is, and severs with knive the old woman's apron-strings from the huge rock, and helps her to her feet.)

I bless the lord, my God,
Who this day sent thee forth to intercede
On my behalf with the strength of thy arms,
Ere this unforseen chance, before appointed day,
Snuff out my flame beneath eternal sun.
Enough there have been of the drifted days
And years I have exhausted on this earth,
Within which from cave of this lips words have flapped.
But of all such none now I reckon have plume
As these which for expression but dumb act
Would use to exclaim my gratitude to you.
(She takes Moses's hand and kiss it. Lylia does same too.)

This old oak and young flower,
Who here lipped my hand, have done overt deed,
Which for worth and comparison to that it has seen,
If candour it has, this attesting sun
In our ears will confess that what these women
Enacted here to eyes, no precedent have
In the events of its most antiquated annals.
(Ramses rides in with his steed-drawn chariot, and many of the slaves scamper for safety.)

How is the work prpceeding, brother?
I heard me from afar word that the work here,
By stubborn workman, was about to be
Disrupted. Hence I ride with swiftness forth
That I may be here: and when the need be,
Assist thr quell of such distraction.

You waste the puffs of breath
From your steeds. There was no such palaver,
That gentleness in dealing put to good use
By my hand, have not here assuaged this soon.
Hot summer has been crowned; and reigning in the clouds,
Its breath is a heat-spewing furnace of hate
On men expose in the fields of work on earth.
Hence is the air and nerves of men made tense.
I think I know the solution for it.
This Hebrew days, in spining wheel of days
Which the year do compose, enforced are to work.
They scarcely find rest, safe in hours under moon.
This should not be so. Day of rest they need.

Day of rest?
You would accord them a day in one year
To seat by languor; and friend idleness?

Not one day in long circle of a year,
But one day in short wheel of every seven
Sunsets on earth.

One day in every seven?

Yes, brave prince.
When hoofs of your steeds by miles in long journey
Encounter weariness, though there be miles
Ahead before you greet your destination,
Shrewdness inform there your decision to pull reins,
And halt betime the zest-drained pounding hoofs:
Which if you would not do but do insist
On urging on the fast ride in their tiredness,
Will make you, when expected not that soon,
Crash into accident when the steeds revolt
Against duress that reins them hard beyond
Bound of their limitation. If mere steeds crave rest,
How much more do these drudge-hands, who pour sweat
To grease the turning wheel of our great work.
Tell, Ramses, where in the verge of this city
May I find hoard of grains?

Where you would not dare touch,
If it be merely to brim bowls of Hebrew slaves.

Mind not what I can dare or not.
Just do me the good. Tell me where it is.

Then I make myself complicit
In the commission of it if I tell you.
I will not.

The temple granaries
Are brimed with hoards of grains, awaiting to be smoked
By acolytes and priests on altar of the gods.

Is that true, Ramses?
Your eyes admit it is so, though your lips
Remain mute. By this power of a prince I wield
In this grand kingdom, I now hereby issue
Forth this command to all you Hebrew slaves.
Drop all your tools and impliments of work
This instance and this day. Proceed you forth
To all the grain-filled granaries standing by
The sacred temples. Seize from them all the grains;
And make your stomachs and the hunger in them
Assume the willing channel, through which shall
Pass the feast and digestion of all the food
Devoted by men to immortal gods.


7:15pm 25-3-2014

As no man thoroughly understands a truth until he has contended against it, so no man has a thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men, until he has suffered from the one, and seen the triumph of the other over his own want of the same.
Wralph Waldo Emerson.