Never Again the Same

by James Tate
Speaking of sunsets,
last night's was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
People were screaming in the streets.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn't natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn't breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirled and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another's eyes--
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.
 'Tis a Pity She a Whore' by John Ford
Act 2, Scene 2
HIPPOLITA:
Call me not dear,
Nor think with supple words to smooth the grossness Of my abuses; ’tis not your new mistress,
Your goodly madam-merchant, shall triumph On my dejection; tell her thus from me, My birth
was nobler, and by much more free.
You are too double In your dissimulation. Seest thou this, This habit, these black mourning
weeds of care? Tis thou art cause of this; and hast divorced My husband from his life, and me
from him, And made me widow in my widowhood.
More of thy perjuries? Thy soul is drown’d too deeply in those sins; Thou need’st not add to th’
number.
These are the fruits of thy untruth, false man! Did’st thou not swear, whilst yet my husband liv’d.
That thou would’st wish no happiness on earth More than to call me wife? didst thou not vow,
When he should die, to marry me? for which The devil in my blood, and thy protests, Caus’d me
to counsel him to undertake A voyage to Ligorne, for that we heard His brother there was dead,
and left a daughter Young and unfriended, whom, with much ado, I wish’d him to bring hither:
he did so, And went; and, as thou know’st, died on the way. Unhappy man, to buy his death so
dear, With my advice! yet thou, for whom I did it, Forget’st thy vows, and leav’st me to my
shame.
 Not With A Bang - Mike Harding
Act 2, Scene 2
EILEEN:
Well I don't know, it's getting me down a bit now this.
I mean it's been three months. I never thought we'd last out. I mean he and I were never very
physical, You know, I didn't even like Postman's Knock when I was a kid Or going on the hobby
horse in the playground, But I think I'm starting to feel a bit frustrated now.
You know this morning I were reaching for something On the top shelf in the kitchen and As I
were leaning against the washing-machine It started going to fast spin and all the vibrations went
through me And it got me-
Well, you know.
I mean, I thought, ooh that's nice and I just sort of stayed there And kept it on fast hot wash and
dry.
Well, there were a knock at the door and I knew it were The Co-op dairy for his money and well
me legs were all shakin' and that And you know I told you about him, him with the red 'hair and
the moustache, the really 'andsome one that looks like Jess Conrad, And he's always smiling at
me- He just got divorced you know by the way.
Well, I went to the door and I felt like I were in a dream, I was all twitchy and, and well, hot and
shaky and I opened the door and, ooh I feel stupid.
Well, it were the other one, His little bandy mate with the squint and no teeth, So I just burst out
crying and said "No yoghurt on Saturday" and I ran back in.
 The Dead by James Joyce
At the centre of Joyce’s tale is Gretta and Gabriel Conroy a couple who have been married for
many years, after a Christmas party with Gabriel's family they have decided to stay in a hotel for
the night. Gabriel anticipates a night of rare romance that may light passion in their marriage but
this is interrupted by a sudden confession from Gretta. That she had had a love before him
Michael Furey, and that the boy was now dead. But how did he die? asked Gabriel
—I think he died for me, she answered. Mild horror took Gabriel at this answer as if, at that hour
when he had hoped to triumph, He did not question her again for he felt that she would tell him
of herself. —It was in the winter, she said, And Michael was ill at the time in his lodgings in
Galway and wouldn't be let out. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. —Poor
fellow, she said. He was very fond of me and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go out
together, walking. He was going to study singing only for his health. He had a very good voice,
poor Michael Furey. —It came to the time for me to leave Galway so I wrote a letter saying I
was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer and hoping he would be better then.
She paused for a moment to get her voice under control: —Then the night before I left I was
packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn't
see so I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor
fellow at the end of the garden, shivering. —And did you not tell him to go back? asked Gabriel.
—I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his death in the rain. But he
said he did not want to live. I can see his eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the
wall where there was a tree. —And did he go home? asked Gabriel. —Yes, he went home. And
when I was only a week in the convent he died.
Liberties College
Nicole O’Connor
ATCL