Week three... still trudging

So I've decided to be diligent and continue posting here, despite the fact that very few people are probably reading it. I suppose it might take a while for anyone to notice, if they ever do, but I am hopeful, and of course relying on you, dear reader, to spread the word. I am going to give you one of my favorite poems today, "The Flea" by John Donne, a metaphysical poet, who mostly focused on either sensual love poems, or religious ones. Most of his religious poetry is actually about man dealing with faith, and being torn between belief and atheism. This is definitely one of his love poems, see what you make of it. I'll tell you the truth, this is how I'd like to be wooed!


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.




And much less awesome, of course, comes one of mine on love as well. I've been a lot into rhyme lately, so let me know what you think of it. 


Untitled

My eyes have now run dry,

The river is finally dead.

The tears have all been cried,

Wasted upon this lonely bed.

I’ve paid the price for love “so true”

With empty years that left an ugly stain.

I thought it was forever, but who knew,

That in the end I paid in vain?

There is no life inside me, a barren soul.

My heart has flat-lined without hope

Of life renewed or ever being whole,

And I crumble down a deadly slope.

Yet like Byron, like Shelley and like Keats

I’ll glue the pieces back together with my poem.

It will mend this lonely heart until it beats

And keep it strong and fast, unbreakable like stone.

No longer in love, no longer weak and sad

No more a slave, to offer my heart as a token.

You say my words are empty and that I am mad

But lock your heart away, to mend the part that’s broken.

Half-cut worm

Welcome back... if anyone is even reading this. It's time for a new week, and a new poem. Hope you enjoy this one, it is without a doubt my favorite poem.

Background: So I was in rehearsal one night, trying to focus on my lines when movement on the black floor caught my eye. When I examined it closer, I saw that it was a worm who had been cut in two, but only partially. Half of its body was wriggling trying to free itself from the other dead half. That inspired this poem.

The Half-Cut Worm

The Half-Cut Worm writhes in its sorrow,
Twisting and turning in the dirt,
Dragging along the dead appendage
That is its body, was its life.

And I writhe with it
In my own yellow, putrid muck
My life no more significant
Than that of the Half-Cut Worm

And yet it goes on living,
A half-life, this half-cut worm,
Should I go on living with it,
A half-cut soul instead?

New Beginnings

I tried this once before, and much like the procrastinator that I am, I completely abandoned it. I think even Blogspot, outraged with my utter laziness, booed and promptly excommunicated my poor fledgling blog from its digital congregation. So like the prodigal son I have returned to beg forgiveness and acceptance back into the fold. I will make it my solemn promise(-ish) to post at least one poem here a week. Sometimes they may not be my own, because let's face it, "we stand on the shoulders of giants", and I'm a working student so my time's limited, but I promise that if you stop by, I will give your week a literary touch. So if you enjoy poetry, and I don't mean that kind that no one can understand or even read, but the kind that creeps into the soul and makes a nest there, then stop by. If you like what you see, comment, and if you don't, comment anyway, and if you really like it, tell your friends at work, maybe they'd enjoy some poetry too. Just to start off the festivities I'll give you a couple of my own.

A little background: This poem was written for class, with the prompt: Erotic poem. It got me to thinking about what men and women find erotic, and how each would react to the fulfilling of their fantasies. Because it is impossible to truly cater to a woman's fantasy, I figured I'd focus on the guys.

Simple Seduction

Tell me your fantasy,

Tell me what you want.

I’ll do whatever you please,

I’ll do whatever you can dream.

Forget the rules of man,

Forget the laws of God,

Turn off the lights and

Turn on all your desire.

Let your hands roam freely,

Let your lips search unafraid.

My body is yours for the taking,

My skin yours to explore.

I can be fair and sweet,

I can be dark and dangerous,

Lift you to heights of passion,

Lower you down onto your knees.

I’ll be obedient and please you,

I’ll cast a spell and drive you wild.

Touch you,

Taste you,

Charm you,

Curse you,

Until…

If you haven’t seen it yet, sisters,

I have shown you a way that’s best

How to seduce any simple man

In 30 lines… or less.

Background: So my best friend and I were recently discussing moving in together and before I could wrap my mind around it I became nervous that she might decide to leave and go somewhere else. This poem is a reaction to the sense of abandonment (which was both overly sensitive and irrational, I was later told).

Breaking

Why do we love

When we know it leads to breaking…

A powerful explosion,

Bits of flesh.

It happens in a flash of violence,

The shrapnel fired at high velocity

Obliterating anything in its way.

And left behind is only smoke

And a memory of something

That was like a feeling.

What have we ever gained from a connection,

That is not paled by the pain?

Yet we keep on feeding it

Slivers of flesh,

Tossing,

Carelessly,

Pieces of us

Into an ever-boiling cauldron

Mixing with tar, and fat,

All growing together into a fitting meal,

For the slumbering monster that we call Love