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Chatter Chief Of Staff Application 1331 After William Shakespeare Hamlet's Soliloquy

To verse, or role reverse, that's in the question,
when writer's block may cause some indigestion -
[with contests tougher then the going's rougher] -
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the strings and sorrows of outrageous scribblers,
the binges of obsessional dribblers,
the noisy cutters' red, black, unread bubbles:
or to take arms against such teething troubles
and by opposing, end them? Still keep one's cool,
guide, bona fide, and gladly suffer fools?

There's surely something wrong in A.P. rules
when talent's topsy-turvy turned by ghouls,
when terms of reference ability are not retained.
Here trophy credibility must be regained.
For here are pressing claims and urgent needs,
though many try, scarce one percent succeeds -
and one percent of these may save their soul
as contest pressures take their toll
of high ideals, oft leaving empty shell
and little else as epitaph, - ah well!

Fame, fickle, tithes her victims. Writers' knell
tolls far more frequently than curtain bell.
Thus those who would their sacred dream preserve,
who from rhyme's chiming path would never swerve,
must make much sacrifice. To serve, - observe,
the scene, and by to serve we mean to fend -
(or else to disillusion most descend) -
the heartburn and the thousand natural shocks
rejection's heir to when rejection knocks.
Are value judgements devoutly to be wished
when versatility by contest rigging's dished?

Our scribes just fate deserve. To serve, observe
the entry they reserve too often stands
ignored, spinsterlike longing for unknown hands,
the shining silver, gold, bronze thus reject
the restless queue, as order ready-pecked,
full of sound and fury points a clue
shows some exchange their trophies. Much ado
'bout nothing scribblers screeding sticky caps
with spelling errors knitting self-writ traps...

To write, page lighting wait. Oh what a weight -
especially where some poetry postdate!
A.P. needs change so fairly dreams may come
when shuffled off the uniform, brain numb,
to often dumb, eraser rubs. Where's the respect?
Aspirant writers though they introspect
earn due reward to compensate long hours,
so unacknowledged, taxing all their powers.
expending energy for scant applause
as others benefit at their expense,
to few the points, to most so little sense.

For who would bear these whips and scorns for long,
envy contumely, commentator's wrong,
the pangs of wasted lines, free-versed, despised, -
(the impudence where, uninvited, eyed
the worthless stranger who advances tried,
who may not be so easily denied
in public places audience - we've cried!) -
Waste in untasted verse, those long delays,
days melting into nights, nights into days,
the insolence of judges, the sharp spurns
that patient merit from the unworthy takes.
When writer might some true quietus make
with rare home cooking? Who would fardels bear,
insults A.P., with little time to spare,
to grunt and sweat under a wordy life
with strife at work, A.P., through envy, - strife!
But that the dread of nothing else to do,
lest dreams sound hollow, isolation too,
or kids to mind, rent find and clothing too, -
threats unemployment act upon morale.
‘Tis true, and all too often ça fait mal!

The options open often puzzle will,
and make us rather bear those ills we have
than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
for few will answer truly to life's call.
Thus the native hue of resolution
is sicklied over with pale cast of thought
losing all instinctive love of writing!

Should one desire to act upon dire fate,
ambitions fire! React! No longer wait!
then the principles inspire to undertake
cooperation by your side, correct mistake
create a pool of judges early, late,
who either added are to contests' weight
or offer critiques daily of the fate
doled out to worthy writers ill displaced
by favorites applauseless trophy placed.

The Chatterer should Mission Statement draft
to standards raise as current wordy draught
blows best away - we witness with disgust
both fore and aft enthusiasms bust
by mini groups with macro pains to spill
on others where no praise may ever fill
the offline void some here avoid with just
a minimum of contact, feathers fussed.

On Mission Statement we could dwell awhile,
with workshops, shining sense and grooming style,
but who can guarantee attention span
with four thoughts max, as forethought many ban?
One could continue till the cows come home
to roost, to working shed, led docile in the gloam,
conclusion's called for here so I perceive
with Chatterer to booster A.P. heave
sigh of relief as quality improves,
emotions interplay - which feeling moves -
ambition principled and well perceived
to Karma adds Divine as verse we leave.

Hamlet's Soliloquy
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.
To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.
'Tis a consumation Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To Sleep? Perchance to dream! aye there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of such long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pang's of depised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
William Shakespeare Hamlet

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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