SPRING/SUMMER 2026

Two New Othello Poems

Jason Allen-Paisant

Who is Othello? III

And she, in spite of nature,

[…] To fall in love with what she feared to look on!—

Othello, the Moor of Venice, Act I, Scene III.

The myth of her purity—

a white glove

held up to the sun,

thin enough to glow.

What she feared to look on:

not a face,

but a density.

What she feared to look on:

threat

of overpowering,

immersion—

the body, 

thick with meaning, 

sinking.

Locating black magic in 

black skin?—

I’m excited 

by this, the way a match is excited

by the strike.

All those accused 

of carrying storm-light 

in the shoulders, 

weather

in the limbs.

All those who live

a half-inch 

above themselves,

mistrusting the foot 

that lands flat,

the note arriving

ahead of schedule.

Miles once said white musicians 

seem to lag 

behind the beat.

Not worse. Not better.

But differently.

The misery—

craving the dark 

while keeping

gloves on

an ache 

for a sound 

never meant to be held—

only traced in the dark 

like smoke, 

like memory of a heat

the gloved hand 

will not endure.

The Uses of Personal Mythology

In this myth, you can rise to the summit of society.

(You—coming from nothing.)

A spectacular rise. A myth unto himself.

But who could cause such a brilliant character to fall?

(You are asking the wrong question.)

Rejoice! Muslim pride/ is buried in the deep./ Ours, and heaven’s, the glory.

(The opening lines from Verdi’s Otello.—What an entrance!)

There was one battlefield on which he was a novice, and that was the battlefield of love.

(Again, you are asking the wrong question.)

Where are the women?

Meaning: his mother. Meaning: the others.

An actor playing Othello: I needed to find motives for this murder.

Clearly he did. Shakespeare didn’t. (Couldn’t.)


Only a career as a mercenary could buy back his freedom.

He has seen and done dark things. Things not easy to talk about. 

He would share these things with D. Or he would not.

Death recognises him.

(Still, for Shakespeare, this is not the story.)

The story is: he is black—clearly he can’t control himself.  

But you knew this from the beginning.