Three O might those sighs and tears return again Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent, That I might in this holy discontent Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain; In mine Idolatry what showers of rain Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent! That sufferance was … Continue reading Sunday Holy Sonnet
John Donne.
Sunday Holy Sonnet
Two As due by many titles I resign My self to Thee, O God; first I was made By Thee, and for Thee, and when I was decayed Thy blood bought that, the which before was Thine; I am Thy son, made with Thy Self to shine, Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid, … Continue reading Sunday Holy Sonnet
Sunday Holy Sonnet
One THOU hast made me, And shall thy worke decay? Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste, I runne to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday; I dare not move my dimme eyes any way, Despaire behind, and death before doth cast Such terrour, and … Continue reading Sunday Holy Sonnet
Be Donne, unconverged [poem]
The right good and proper narrative says that this is the best poem of last year. It is quite converged, and celebrates the lies of the narrative. Good Bones Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously … Continue reading Be Donne, unconverged [poem]
To your scattered bodies Go [Poem]
This is an apocalyptic poem. The bodies that are scattered are those of the grave: the burial plots, the sea. And all the regulations and authorities of this world will fall as the dead rise first. Holy Sonnet At the round earth's imagin'd corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless … Continue reading To your scattered bodies Go [Poem]
A Donneish Holy Sonnet.
No, Master Donne, your work did not decay. It was neglected and unfashionable for a time, but it still sings. "Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?" Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste, I run to death, and death meets me … Continue reading A Donneish Holy Sonnet.
The web, poem.
This is not romantic. Work the rest out yourselves The Bait Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks. There will the river whispering run Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun; And there the … Continue reading The web, poem.
Poem of the day 50
The Clerk of Oxford suggests that Anne Donne had died in delivering a stillborn 12th child two years before Donne wrote this. It is full of loss, and as he points out, the theology is bleak. Appointed by James I as chaplain for the embassy led by the Lord of Doncaster to meditate between Catholics … Continue reading Poem of the day 50
Poem of the day 44
This is Donne, and follows both yesterday's poem and today's scripture text. Holy Sonnet VI. Spit in my face, you Jewes, and pierce my side; Buffet and scoffe, scourge and crucifie mee; For I have sinn’d, and sinn’d, and onely hee Who could do no iniquitie hath dyed. But by my death can not be … Continue reading Poem of the day 44
Poem of the day 43
This is one of Donne's Holy Sonnets. There is a line within that is well known, but the apocylaptic imagery is less well seen. Let not anyone say that a Christian cannot think, feel, or do high art. III At the round earth’s imagin’d corners blow Your trumpets, angells; and arise, arise From death, you … Continue reading Poem of the day 43