"So," they say, "nobody's perfect!"
But the Vinedresser won't buy that.
Given the opportunity, He will trim the unproductive suckers and shape the branches so each one will bask in Sonlight.

Monday, August 27, 2012

My Scribbling's Fruit

Writing takes me all over the Internet, so blame thou me that I get distracted? (Oops! Classical overload?)
      Yesterday I discovered John Donne, whose name my "education" touched upon. Churchman? Poet? Social critic? Church-critic? Yes, but such measly characterizations hardly scratch the surface of his life's achievements. As I haven't yet plumbed his works deeply enough to judge his character (Catch my tongue-in-cheek presumption?), I'll not include "Christian" in his life's portfolio.
      Am I wrong, or did well-educated, fourteenth and fifteenth century people seem to make so much more of their lives than our contemporaries? Though then, as now, making their fortunes preoccupied much of their effort.
      While I'm certainly not a Renascence Man, I kinda like this one. His prose and verse, in a way similar to those of the Scriptures, beckon me to discover what lies under his deeply metaphorical, pen-scratchings.
      So, I'll gratify you by giving my "pen" a rest, and intrigue you with, The Flea.

by John Donne

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
    And this, alas ! is more than we would do.
O 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're met,
And cloister'd 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 suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

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