Monday, April 25, 2005
John Donne: Holy Sonnet XIV
A late contribution to National Poetry Month:
"Holy Sonnet XIV"
Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd towne, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot againe,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, shall never be free,
Nor ever shaste, except you ravish me.
--John Donne
From Break, Blow Burn: Camille Paglia Reads Forty-three of the World's Best Poems (New York: Pantheon, 2005), 30.
--ER
"Holy Sonnet XIV"
Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd towne, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot againe,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, shall never be free,
Nor ever shaste, except you ravish me.
--John Donne
From Break, Blow Burn: Camille Paglia Reads Forty-three of the World's Best Poems (New York: Pantheon, 2005), 30.
--ER
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To Celia
by Ben Johnson (1572-1637)
Drink to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,
And sent'st it backe to me:
Since when it growes, and smells,
I sweare, Not of it self, but thee.
by Ben Johnson (1572-1637)
Drink to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did'st onely breathe,
And sent'st it backe to me:
Since when it growes, and smells,
I sweare, Not of it self, but thee.
# posted by 
: 12:47 PM
: 12:47 PM
I like being two&seven because I don't want to follow someone else's suggestions of how I might be more like they are.
# posted by : 6:37 PM
: 6:37 PM
Well, then, welcome two&seven. I don't think, though, that you should worry too much about being like anyone else who regularly hangs around these parts. Most of us are all purdy differenmt from the rest. The more, the differenter, the merrier, in my book. Or on this here blog, I should say. Thanks for the contribution to Poetry Month, BTW.
Dr. B, they didn't call me HBNF (hardback nonfiction) in college for nothing. At 40, I am discovering literature.
I am embarrassed that I never encountered this poem until the other day. But now I have. I love it. It makes me think of how I am so past due to have my hip broken while wrestling with an angel. Plus, what seems sensual, even sexual, in today's understanding, overwhelms me with the reality that "sex," and all its associative realities, is actually an act of creation. To compare the two makes perfect poetic sense. And to be overcome with God's Godness must be the ultimate receiving of the Act of Love in a way that my poor pitiful mind can't begin to grasp. The best words of even the most erudite among us can do nothing but be insulting to the idea in their feeble attempt to convey it.
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