I wanna be like Jesus


I’m not one for writing poetry. I have nothing against the art form, the medium, I’m just not a practitioner. For some reason on the train today I was inspired, for lack of a better term, to write the following. I hope you like it.
I Wanna be Like Jesus by Tom O’Keefe

I wanna be like Jesus.
I wanna have compassion for my fellow man,
My fellow woman.
I wanna ease their suffering.
I wanna ease yours.
I wanna open my arms to embrace the world,
knowing that they might crucify me first.
Might? Will.
I wanna be like Jesus and let the sinners know they aren’t alone
and warn the judgers that this time there is no safety in numbers.
I wanna be like Jesus and have no agenda but love.
I want to explain that hate is fear,
That the bravest thing we can do is love.
That we must embrace the fear.
I wanna be like Jesus and walk on water in my mother’s eyes.
I wanna heal the sick,
Enrich the poor,
Help the lost be found,
And inspire others to do the same
not just talk about it.
I wanna be like Jesus and
tear down the temples just to make my point.
I want to grant forgiveness for those that do me wrong,
Smile in the face of adversity,
And love those that I fear.
Like my worst self.
I wanna be like Jesus even though I don’t think I believe in him.
Then again on most days I don’t believe in …
I wanna be like Jesus and make it about everyone else.
I want to make the world a better place.
I wanna help others find peace and love,
Not open their eyes but help them open their own,
And truly see.
I wanna help people believe in love, in life, in the here and now.
I wanna be like Jesus and believe in me.

NOTE: After I wrote this, I realized that I was “influenced” or “inspired” or I quite liberally yet unintentionally “borrowed” the rhythm, meter and form from a superior poem entitled “I wanna hear a poem” by Steve Coleman. Here’s the link: http://spin-poetry.livejournal.com/8200.html
You can also find video of him performing his piece on YouTube – I recommend it.


The Irish Witch


I met her on the first day of the month-long winter intensive at Shakespeare & Company in Lenox, Massachusetts – Winter 2009. It was the first day, or perhaps the second. (Everyday concepts like time and space tend to meld or at least warp whilst in a program like that.) I was among a group of 40 actors and educators seeking a deeper connection to and understanding of Shakespeare’s work. We had just finished a morning of movement exercises. The kind of exercises where you have to move like an angry person; or a happy person; or yourself as a child; or a color; or one of the seven deadly sins. We had finished one or all of those exercises when a little gray-haired woman sitting on the side (a woman I had failed to notice previously while I was Sloth, or 6 years old or Fuchsia) looked up at me and said, “You’re O’Keefe.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t saying it to snap me out of the previous exercise – that wasn’t necessary. She said it, I believe, so I knew that she knew who I was, as a manner introduction. I replied, “Yes,” or, “That’s me,” or something more clever. She just said, “A good Irish boy.” She said it with a wry smile and a glint in her eye, and I immediately learned two things: that we both shared the understanding that the term “good” is highly subjective; and that I really liked this woman.

I soon found out that the knowing, little gray-haired woman was Clare Reidy and one of my Basics teachers. Basics is a class we took every day for the first week in which 10 or so students worked to better understand, connect to, and perform Shakespeare’s text. Clare’s specialty in this class was Shakespeare’s imagery. Her knowledge went so far beyond a deep understanding of Shakespeare’s text: she had an amazing command over the historical, religious and symbolic facts that serve as context for Shakespeare’s works. Her insight (especially when coupled with that of my other teacher Dennis Krausnick) was mind-blowing. With her instruction, Shakespeare’s words took on new life for me. As an actor, I understood, I connected to, and explored the depth of Shakespeare’s words more than I ever thought possible. As a spectator, I watched actors breathe new life into ancient texts. And it was Clare that helped us do that. Her overwhelming comprehension, her passion about the work, and her ability to convey both of these gifts to her students was almost other-worldly. Which is why I wasn’t particularly surprised when she told us she was a witch. An Irish Witch, to be precise.

I remember more than a few students asking, “Is she really a witch?” But I didn’t pay any heed to the question because I was pretty sure that she was. Just as I knew that Clare knew that “good” was a subjective term, I knew that her being a witch had nothing to do with childhood story time witches. She was an Irish Witch because she was schooled in history and art and literature and folklore and the way she worked that knowledge, the way she shared her passion, was nothing short of magical. And she was Irish. If she hadn’t given up “the drink” years before I met her, we would have shared quite a few glasses of Irish Whiskey.

She was not only the first Irish Witch I ever met, but she was also the funniest. A year after we met, I was back at Shakespeare & Co. as an acting intern. During our dropping-in workshop – where we learned a fantastic method for connecting to the text – I was sitting next to the little Irish troublemaker while two actors were putting up the scene from “The Tempest,” Act. III, s. 1, between Ferdinand and Miranda. As the scene began, Clare leaned over and whispered, “I always wanted to cast Miranda as a 13 or 14 year-old girl, pre-pubescent, right before she starts coming into her sexuality.” Clare’s statement was not a comment on the lovely and talented Emily (early 20’s) who was putting the scene up in class, she was once again showing her knowledge of and passion for Shakespeare’s works (Clare acted and directed when she wasn’t teaching.) Towards the end of the scene, Wolfe Coleman (a tall, strapping, actor much too handsome for his own good) as Ferdinand, kneels before Miranda and says:

I am in my condition
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;
I would, not so!–and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log–man.


Do you love me?


O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound
And crown what I profess with kind event
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert
What best is boded me to mischief! I
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world
Do love, prize, honour you. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides,
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log–man.

Clare immediately looks at me and whispers, “on second thought, I’d cast Miranda as a 76-year-old woman.” How could I not laugh? And yes, I’m pretty sure I got the stink eye from Dave Demke, which caused Clare to laugh.

That summer Clare helped me get to the heart of The Duke in “Measure for Measure.” She was invaluable not only as a resource for acting, but she was a supportive friend. Someone to whom I could bitch and complain to – we had a tendency to gossip, especially because we knew it was not what good Irish boys and girls do. The next summer I didn’t get to see her nearly as much as we were both busy doing different projects. But the little time I spent with her was a joy.

My favorite Irish Witch passed away this weekend. I could write about how I wish I knew her better or longer, how I regret that I didn’t make more of an effort to “go grab coffee” as we promised each other we would – but that misses the point. I won’t express my gratitude for what time I did have with Clare by being greedy and wishing for more. I’m grateful to have crossed paths with this Irish Witch.

Clare left an indelible impression on my life. Two weeks ago, I was in class working on Hamlet’s “Oh that this too, too, solid flesh would melt,” when my teacher complimented me. She said my imagery was fantastic – she could see “the un-weeded garden that grows to seed.” I said thank you twice: once aloud to her and the other in my mind, to Clare.

I don’t particularly believe in heaven, but it’s times like this that make me want to. I’d like to think that Clare is up there now, gossiping with Shakespeare himself and telling my mother that I’m still a “good Irish boy.” Give ’em Hell in heaven, Clare. You will be missed.