John Donne: The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou deny'st me is;

It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;

Thou knowest that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead.

Yet this enjoys before it woo,

And pampered, swells with one blood made of two,

And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, yea, more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, we are met

And cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Though use make you apt to kill me,

Let not to that self murder added be,

And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since

Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be

Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?

Yet thou triumph'st, and sayest that thou

Find'st not thyself, nor me, the weaker now.

'Tis true, then learn how false fears be;

Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me,

Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

John Donne just hit on a girl using a flea as a metaphor. That girl wasn't having any of it and killed the flea, so take that John Donne. You're not getting any today my friend.

I'm not really sure what else I want to comment on this. John Donne is really kind of huge in poetry, but I only know him because in a Scholarship Essay for the Exchange Club of the Tonawandas (Shoutout, didn't win the main prize but they as an organization were very nice to me and the other people I knew who were Student of the Month) I tried to use "No man is an island" as a proverb, and one of the ladies from our local group of the Exchange Club who were kind of our mentors  scolded me for not giving Donne the proper credit. When I expressed my surprise that it wasn't just some anonymous proverb she kind of went on a John Donne spiel in which she mentioned this poem because, and absolutely no disrespect here, she is clearly one of those people who is at the age where they don't really have the most concern for prudence anymore. I wish I could remember her name because she was really awesome. She apparently taught English at Tonawanda for almost a decade, and still cared deeply about Tonawanda as a community, which was nice. The fact that she thanked us for not being as snobby as NT didn't hurt either, hahaha.

But yeah, other thoughts on this poem are that the more things change, the more they really kind of stay the same. Silly guys will try and get girls by saying stupid things. I remember my English teacher Mr. Mercer always trying to highlight how bawdy William Shakespeare was. I think when you're first starting Shakespeare it's kind of a surprise how racy he really is. I mean, think of the porter complaining about alcohol affecting his love life in Macbeth. Shakespeare's happy to go there, to walk that line, and it's not surprising, because Shakespeare was a twenty year old guy. Granted, a really talented, eloquent, twenty year old man who deeply understood the human condition and was deft at social satire- but he was still a twenty year old guy who made penis jokes. Mr. Mercer would have you know he was actually quite good at it. Right now I am likewise reminded of Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream messing up his line and saying that the lion deflowered poor Thisby.

The fact that guys haven't changed doesn't make it any less amusing to watch John Donne hit on a girl while using rhyming language like "Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered, swells with one blood made of two,". But at the same time, it's kind of nice to be reminded, even with silly things like this, that people haven't changed all that much throughout the centuries.

Nobody's used any insect metaphors on me yet, so I guess that's reassuring.

A Rush

Write me a love letter

And I’ll write one for you

My will eager soars for a chance with romance

To the point of foolish rhymes

My tender dizzy aspirations climb

I sigh

For moments to meet words with a flurry of blush

Deepened with a natural flush

Of blood pounded out by fevered heart

I can feel your nearness and our possibility

I will make you melt with thoughts of me

I’m

            Itching

                        Fingers twitching

My lips bite themselves thinking, guessing, wanting

Wondering

            Will you hold me

                        All night long?

Will the way you speak my name make me believe in God?

Whispering I’m waiting

Small slips of my soul reaching

Feeling a sort of empty

That doesn’t cut too deep

Because, I swear

            When I close my eyes and think of you

                        I taste heaven. 

Happy Wednesday erryone! Haven't posted in a few days so I thought I would. 

This poem is really unlike most things I write since it doesn't end in dark and doom. Normally I think this kind of writing is tacky and teenager love crap, but I'm going to share it with you anyway to show that I like to try new things sometimes. It's so easy to convey angst, it's so easy to write when you're angry because it's so concrete. You can boil in anger if you're not careful, and write pages upon pages about it as it festers. But writing when you're happy and not make it sound like you're from Kansas (you know, because corn?), is hard. Granted, everyone has felt that irrational (maybe rational) feeling of love (or lust) in their life and can understand such writings, but that doesn't make them any less nauseating. I hope this poem didn't make you feel sick.... 

In hind sight, here are some religious motifs in it, not sure if on purpose or not, nor if they are intended to be blasphemous or apprehensive about love and stuff but... Please critique if you'd like or give me an opinion, I like hearing other people's views, and I hope that y'all have a great rest of the week! Godspeed. ~Sarah

Galway Kinnell; After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

After Making Love We Hear Footsteps

For I can snore like a bullhorn 

or play loud music 

or sit up talking with any reasonably sober Irishman

and Fergus will only sink deeper 

into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash, 

but let there be that heavy breathing 

or a stifled come-cry anywhere in the house 

and he will wrench himself awake 

and make for it on the run—as now, we lie together, 

after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, 

familiar touch of the long-married, 

and he appears—in his baseball pajamas, it happens, 

the neck opening so small he has to screw them on— 

and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, 

his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child. 

In the half darkness we look at each other 

and smile 

and touch arms across this little, startlingly muscled body— 

this one whom habit of memory propels to the ground of his making, 

sleeper only the mortal sounds can sing awake, 

this blessing love gives again into our arms

from A New Selected Poems by Galway Kinnell, Houghton Mifflin, 2000

If anyone wants to hear it read aloud by Mr. Kinnell, go here

I just want to start off my saying happy birthday to my mom, and to apologize if I ever did this as a child. I personally love how much is crammed into this little poem, the imagery, and emotion. This poem wasn't written in 2000, it was written in the mid-1970s. Kinnell himself was a strong political and civil rights activist, as well as a globetrotter and appreciator of music. Many of his books, notably The Book of Nightmares (1971), are extremely politically relevant and focus deeply on the problems of the time. This poem holds little of the political nature of his other work. 

The most vivid part of this poem is the imagery. Not only the sexual imagery, but the imagery of the little six year old in the pajamas that are too small for him. I am currently young enough to remember a pair of pajamas that I had to wrestle over my head every time I put them on. But I loved them, so I kept wearing them until they became so threadbare that they were little more than rags of fuzz. That youthful exuberance and naivety tend toward the caring and maternal/paternal nature of the reader, rather than making us feel annoyed or angry (as most people would after being interrupted in this position). 

The other major point in this poem is the humor. It is supposed to be funny, with all the sarcasm and bantering. He qualifies sober with "reasonably," what is reasonable for an irishman? Probably not very sober at all. The sarcasm of "and he will wrench himself awake" resounds cleanly with the reader's sense of humor. Even the title, with its almost scandalous nature, provides some humor after we realize that the footsteps belong to a six year old. I personally thought it was going to be a cuckolded husband or something. Boy was I wrong.

There are a few key spots in the poem that I want to point out. 

First: "familiar touch of the long-married"

This line shows something very deep about this poem. Not only is this couple together and has a child, they have been married a long time, and still love and care for each other deeply. Not only do they not get disgruntled by their 6 year old (yes I looked that up) climbing into bed with them, it only serves to strengthen their relation as husband and wife.

Second: "and smile"

BAM! complete turnaround. The first part of the poem seems annoyed but understanding, with "but let there be... and he will wrench himself awake." This smile radiates the love that these two people share for each other, and it is because of this child and his childish ways that they are able to fell that so strongly at this moment. 

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I did, and I will see all of you again on THURSDAY!

Happy Poetry Month!

Signing off  ~Sam Zimmerman