To My Sitting Member Poem by Douglas Scotney

Dear Mick,
In the title to an obscurely-themed group art exhibition
I saw the word 'Bloom'.

We talked about 'Ulysses'.
One said it was too old, or she wasn't old enough.
The other had read 'Dubliners'. No! It was 'A Portrait...'.

I had read all but two chapters last year
In whatever order I felt like,
Starting with 'gold and bronze at 4pm'.
No! It was 'masturbation at 8pm on Sandymount Beach'
With 'The Companion' in the other hand.

Then into 'the pub at 4'.

I knocked off 'Molly's punctuation-free soliloquy'
In two extended sittings
And wrote a triple-barrelled limerick, 'The End of Ulysses':
To be found elsewhere.

I haven't read the anti-semitic chapter
Nor penetrated the brothel.

I had abandoned 'Ulysses' for 'Hamlet' fifteen years ago.
I now know Shakespeare's ghost was Hamlet's father, or something.
I have written the poem 'Great Grief',
To be found elsewhere
And now here:

William's son named Hamnet
Died in 1596
Aged just eleven and a half,
When Will was thirty two.
Will's great grief made greater grief
To compensate for loss.
It mixed a wild concoction,
Made grieving man go mad.
Hamlet given no relief
Relieved sad Shakespeare's grief.

Which reminds me:
For crying out aloud, Mick,
When Will we have the Will
To lose the wood-smoke-infused,
Stinking, madness-enhancing
Winter night air
Of Hamlet-no-Longer
Adelaide?

Doug.