Poetry Friday: Richard III
I’m currently working on a production called I Hate Shakespeare. It runs through quite a few of Shakespeare’s most famous plays, and then some of the lesser known ones as well, poking fun at them (and at people who claim to hate Shakespeare, actually).
My favorite part of the show is the "Zombie Theatre Presents…" segments, when zombies interrupt famous soliloquies.
The first of these is from Richard III, and I present it to you here, with some zombie stuff added at the end so you can get a feel for it.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments,
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Photo by JayT47.