George Frederick Cooke (1756-1812 ) buried in St. Paul’s Chapel Cemetery

Alas Poor Yorick I knew him well
And here I stand—headless as him as well
Suffering the Scorn of Critics for my portrayals
Sending me into a downward spiral of drink and debt
To wander St. Paul’s Cemetery—prowling for my bones
My grave is marked thanks to Sir Edmund Kean
He bowed to my thespian prowess—He emulated Me
Did he take my toe or was it my finger as a souvenir?
It is said Kean’s wife—upset by the sight of my appendage
Threw Kean’s cemetery trophy away
But my skull has lived on—lived on in performances of Hamlet
Alas, I must wander here in St. Paul’s searching—searching
And on September 11th bones came falling from the sky
Scattering into the sacred grounds of St. Paul
The cherubs on the gravestones—gazed upwards at this rain of humanity
Others too have come searching—searching here

George Frederick Cooke, Actor

As a lad— the theater beckoned me
In the town of Berwick
Nar a farthing in my pocket
With no stage keeper in sight
Sneaked inside—that holy place
Spying a large barrel in a corner
Crept inside
And lo on the bottom of the barrel
Two twenty-one pound cannon balls
What be they—in this play?
Sitting on cannon balls—hidden in a barrel
Listening to the chatter of the arriving audience
The musicians tuning their instruments
And the hushed voices of the actors
With a great sense of anticipation
When darkness engulfed me
By a carpet draped over the barrel
And suddenly lifted aloft
Cannon balls rolling from my feet to my head
Summoning all my strength—bursting out of the carpet
Sending the barrel rolling out on the stage
I emerged—facing the audience and
Macbeth’s Three Witches
Escaping the entrapment of the Thunder Making Barrel
That heralds the start of Macbeth.
And which now heralded my first appearance on the stage
Predicting that Macbeth would be one of my greatest plays

From a work in progress (play) inspired by the lives of those interred in the cemeteries of St. Paul’s Chapel and Trinity Church in Lower Manhattan.