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John Donne Options
Daemon
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 12:00:00 AM
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John Donne

The greatest of the metaphysical poets, Donne wrote original, witty, erudite, and often obscure verse characterized by a brilliant use of paradox, hyperbole, and imagery and distinguished by a remarkable blend of passion and reason. Neglected for some 200 years, he was rediscovered by 20th-century critics. Author of the famous phrase "for whom the bell tolls," a reference to the tolling of church bells upon someone's death, Donne commissioned what macabre painting shortly before his own passing? More...
thar
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 6:21:30 AM

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The article does not say his writing can also be very dirty!
And really, really, funny.

I just love this guy's poetry.

curmudgeonine
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 8:54:52 AM

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A few months before his death, Donne commissioned a portrait of himself as he expected to appear when he rose from the grave at the Apocalypse.[15] He hung the portrait on his wall as a reminder of the transience of life.
Marguerite
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 9:37:36 AM

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John Donne's wife, Anne, died five days after giving birth to their twelfth child who was born still. Though he did not mourn the child, he deeply mourned his wife's death.
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this all pleasures fancies be;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
The Good Morrow, stanza 1.
zellij
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 10:59:55 AM

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Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.
It’s more sensational to be madly in love than to be the subdued slave of time.
jcbarros
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 11:12:15 AM

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Interesting figure.
monamagda
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 3:35:04 PM

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Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
BY JOHN DONNE
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Haz
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 4:58:00 PM

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Very interesting. Thanks, I hadn't heard of him before.
Absurdicuss
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 8:20:15 PM
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After reading thar's post I read some of Donne. For an everyday blue collar guy like me Mr. Donne would be an acquired appreciation as I find the vernacular cumbersome. But I get it that he was a talented wordsmith and so I can appreciate that.
philânderos
Posted: Sunday, April 6, 2014 9:51:56 PM

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One of my favorite poets.
thar
Posted: Monday, April 7, 2014 8:25:59 AM

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ELEGY XIX. TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED

By John Donne

Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown, going off, such beauteous state reveals,
as when from flowry meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:

Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven's angels used to be
Received by men; thou, Angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite:
Those set our hairs on end, but these our flesh upright.

License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blest am I in this discovering thee!
To enter in these bonds is to be free;
Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,
That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus arrayed;

Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why than,
what needst thou have more covering than a man?


Whistle

(edit - Breaks are my breaks, not in original. Inserted to stop it being a wall of words when posted).
kenturner1
Posted: Wednesday, April 9, 2014 8:01:56 PM

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Great article. Thanks.
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