When I was twenty-one attending
drama school, our female
Shakespeare teacher gave the
whole class a Macbeth
monologue to learn and deliver,
in front of the entire class
six weeks after. She had won
many awards for her
Shakespeare performances over
the years, doing regular
film and television gigs. I put
off learning the speech
until the night before, memorizing
the complete part after
midnight, on good speed, and
whiskey. The following day,
she was totally brutal. With not
a kind word for a single
heartbroken student, following
their best attempts at
Macbeth's final, timeless words.
I went second last. Moving
onto the compact stage with a
wicked, pounding hangover.
Reciting the words, I still remember
to this day. At the end of
the monologue, the entire theatre
was silent. An instant fear
violently attached itself to me.
"Robert, you are the only
student I have ever taught, who
will convincingly play this
role, or any of the other epic
Shakespeare parts. Bravo!"
she calmly declared, triggering
the entire room to a mad,
deafening applause. I left the
school not long after.
Choosing poetry and instinct
over theatre and teachers.
Unpublished until I was thirty-three.
Never forgetting that day.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in Gargoyle, New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.
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