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. 


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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.