Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

Spare Bytes

Spare bytes.


If her computer was a chest, she would have
Had an old collection wrapped in loving folds,
Collecting dust; locked away for good.

Little groups of letters, piles of words, some
Resting slack atop each other, some in comas
Some still clinging to the lid in pseudo-rigor-mortis.

I read them once; they were a pretty thing; they were
A pretty set of honest things, an insecure delight
In dancing feet and rhymes, all set in quatrains.

And just beneath the ink, beneath the paper folds, just past
The cold of envelopes there quivers a pulse.
Each byte still trembles with the impact of the keystrokes.

But no; we lost the key under the ground. The daisies
Cannot pick the lock, and it’s not rage we feel
But loss again. Her words are buried in her dreams.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Hubble


Hubble

A moment, made of colours, lain in front
Of us, can say a thousand words. But then,
Which words were said to us back then, back when
We first laid eyes upon the pillars of creation?

Articulate a formula and take
A breath; within, the truth is built from stones
Drawn from the mind, like love; our mental bones
Are shaking, hardened out against the ache.

To draw the night sky, threaded, through the eye
Of needles; just to sew with our own minds the time-
Line of the stars, OUR stars, to climb
Atop these pillars, gazing out – OUR open nation.

The antonym of Chaos is the Cosmos;
Let it in, let it in, let it in.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

John Donne, and A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning


AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
    And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
    "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." 

                
So let us melt, and make no noise,                                       5 
    No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; 
'Twere profanation of our joys  
    To tell the laity our love. 


Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears; 
    Men reckon what it did, and meant;                              10 
But trepidation of the spheres,  
    Though greater far, is innocent. 


Dull sublunary lovers' love  
    —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove                                     15 
    The thing which elemented it. 


But we by a love so much refined, 
    That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
    Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.          
               20

Our two souls therefore, which are one, 
    Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
    Like gold to aery thinness beat. 


If they be two, they are two so                                          25 
    As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show  
    To move, but doth, if th' other do. 


And though it in the centre sit,  
    Yet, when the other far doth roam,                                30 
It leans, and hearkens after it,  
    And grows erect, as that comes home. 


Such wilt thou be to me, who must, 
    Like th' other foot, obliquely run; 
Thy firmness makes my circle just,                                    35 
    And makes me end where I begun.  




About John Donne

John Donne was born in 1572 to a recusant Catholic family (meaning a family that did not attend Anglican practices). At the time, practicing Catholicism was illegal in England. Though his family faced much persecution, John Donne managed to achieve a private education, going on to study at Cambridge – However, he failed to get a degree due to his Catholicism. Later in life, after questioning his faith, he became a Protestant – He fought in the Anglo-Spanish war, and upon returning, he began an illustrious career as chief secretary to Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, Sir Thomas Egerton. However, this did not last; four years later, he displeased Egerton and married his niece, Anne More, ending his diplomatic career. For several years, Donne struggled to cope with his ever-growing family (His wife had no fewer than 12 children). However, from 1610, Donne’s life took a turn for the better – he received patronage from Sir Robert Drury, and eventually became the Dean of St Pauls, a lucrative and prominent position within the church of England. He remained in this position until he died in 1631.
In John Donne’s poetry, we must address a key concept – that of Christian joy. Adam Potkay captures this important theme when discussing Donne’s work by stating;
‘… within the Protestant “pluriverse” of souls each striving for God and struggling against Satan or fallen human nature, joy serves as a countervailing, centripetal force, a sign and surety of adhesion to God and neighbour.’[i] Donne believed that joy was something biblical, a connection to the divine that actively opposed the forces of evil, and Satan. He actively condemned joylessness, and struggled in his famous sermons to draw people away from joyless lives. However, today John Donne is perhaps best known for being one of the first Metaphysical Poets – This group of independent writers was defined by dealing with topics such as love and religion, as well as using ingenious metaphors, or ‘conceits’, to great effect. John Donne’s most famous example is his use of a Flea to discuss sexual relations between two people in The Flea;
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.
This kind of imagery is extremely evocative, and was particularly effective during the sixteenth- and seventeenth centuries for pushing people’s understanding of language beyond their limits. Conceits broke new ground; as Helen Gardner states, ‘A conceit is a comparison whose ingenuity is more striking than its justness’[ii] – meaning that their denotative meaning was not immediately indicative of their connotative meaning. Basically, they used unusual and unconventional metaphors to challenge people to think about their source material.

Looking at 'A Valediction Forbidding Mourning'

In 'A Valediction Forbidding Mourning', Donne uses this and much more to talk about the dangers and irrationality of loss, grief and joylessness. The title itself is enough to tell us that – Valediction essentially means ‘farewell’, and so the title reads ‘A Farewell Forbidding Mourning’. This ties in to the context of the piece, as it was written to his wife before departing for continental Europe around 1611-12. However, it’s clear that his themes stretch beyond departing on a journey, as the piece begins by referring to the death of ‘virtuous men’. He wants us to understand that these men were loved by friends and family. And yet, whilst some say, ‘… ‘Now his breath goes,’ and some say ‘No.’’, Donne suggests that we ‘melt, and make no noise’; that it is ‘profanation of our joys/ to tell the laity our love.’ He wishes for us to move directly against the concept of mourning by breaking the traditions of a funeral. He refers to the workings of the universe, to the ‘Moving of th’ earth’ and man’s ‘trepidation of the spheres’, as an innocent yet harmful speculation – whilst ‘Men reckon what it did’, they will eventually find no answer to their questions. Here, spheres may be referring to something spiritual as opposed to literal, such as the afterlife, or heaven; however, either way the meaning is much the same. People consider loss on a scale that is beyond their understanding, ergo: why has this happened?
Once we move into the fourth stanza, the main theme of the poem becomes apparent; Donne isn’t just referring to the loss of a friend or relative. He’s talking about the loss of a lover, or a loved partner. He talks about the irrationality of love, and it’s blinding sense of ‘logic’; ‘sublunary lovers’ love/ - Whose soul is sense – cannot admit/ Of absence’. These lines are particularly significant because, in them, he identifies a paradox; lover’s rationality is subjective. Between two lovers, their feelings and experiences are alive and earthly (aka – sublunary, meaning belonging to this world, normally as opposed to a spiritual one). Their souls, made of ‘sense’, cannot adjust to absence as the act of acceptance would kill that feeling. He’s referring to moving on, and the need to put something behind you; ‘cannot admit/ Absence, ‘cause it doth remove/ The thing which elemented it.’ It’s a double-edged sword: on one hand, the loss of this love is a raw and open wound; on the other, moving on risks the chance of betraying yourself.
Donne reinforces this idea in the next stanza, suggesting that this conviction leads us to ‘Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.’ This is a reference to the wilful negligence of a lover in mourning, and the active pursuit of ignoring emotions and rational responses – specifically, he talks about the senses. The next stanza opens up the theme of joyfulness for the first time, as opposed to his position on joylessness. He talks of an ‘expansion’, as opposed to a ‘breach’, referring to the two souls still being one, ‘Though I must go’ – here he acknowledges a physical separation, whilst alluding to a spiritual connection. They don’t halve; instead, they expand, ‘Like gold to aery thinness beat.’ Essentially, it’s similar to dissolution; whilst they spread far apart, the solution is the same. A drop of wine in a glass of water spreads, and remains connected.
The last three stanzas of the poem, my favourite part, essentially embodies the Metaphysical conceit, or extended metaphor, that poets like Donne were so brilliant at crafting. He compares the two separated souls to needles on a compass; ‘If they be two, they are two so/ As stiff twin compasses are two’. The implications of this image are so ingenious, that just considering it brings the reader to several inherent truths about the irrationality of joylessness. By their very nature, the needles of a compass can never meet; ‘Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show/ To move, but doth, if th’ other do.’ The act of pursuing lost love is the futile act of the two hands of a compass attempting to meet. He still considers the two liked at the centre; ‘Yet, when the other far doth roam,/ It leans, and hearkens after it,/ And grows erect, as that comes home.’ There’s a yearning feeling, something which is transcribed as a physical force – the act of grief is a force of nature, a primal sadness.
At the end of the poem, Donne brings the subject matter back to his wife, the recipient of the poem, ‘who must,/ Like th’ other foot, obliquely run’. Here, the title of the poem comes back to us, and we’re reminded that this is his own farewell to his wife, forbidding mourning. He reminds her, however, that whilst in death they may never physically be together, the force of their love can retain joyfulness even after death; ‘Thy firmness makes my circle just,/ And makes me end where I begun.’ Here, in the last lines, he brings the poem full circle by referring to his own beginnings. He reminds her – and by extension, us the readers – that in our memories, the true life of love will always be found.




[i] Adam Potkay, ‘Spenser, Donne, and the Theology of Joy’, Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900, 46.1 (2006) p.43
[ii] Helen Gardner, The Metaphysical Poets (England: Oxford University Press, 1961) p. xxiii

Friday, 20 June 2014

My hands

When my hands weren't enough for you

Counting down on broken fingers;
Five, four, three, two, one.
The dance begins; it begins with
One. A single step, whirling around
Within the walls of a city
In June.
The next set of footsteps crash
Against your own, and the dance changes from
Tango to waltz.

And as more feet come to compete
In these streets, toes meet at the centre;
Our graceful sweeps are left incomplete.
Our hands mistreat one another, repeat
Old steps, but offbeat and fleeting.

If three makes a crowd, then we all
Must feel pretty cramped in here.
We get battered along the way;
Some of us fall,
Some of us flourish,
Most of us get a little bit broken.
I count down on my broken fingers;
Five, Four, Three-
                                                -Two, One.

Our palms lock together, and we leave through the main gate,

                                Dancing a nifty little foxtrot on our cobblestones.

Thursday, 29 May 2014

Let us play at fiction, you and I




Let us play at fiction, you and I.


I saw you in our nursery class, and traded
Shiny stones to sit right next to you.
There’s thirteen years between that day and now,
And yet, some things have stayed the same.
Your nose is just as small, you’re just as tall;
Although perhaps not, as you’re fully grown.
Your eyes are almost just the same,
They’re just the same,
They’re just as wide, but now they’re closed
To me.

Where did you go?
I felt I lost you in my pocket, like you opened up
A hole and clambered out, to go be free.
Where did you go?
I couldn’t keep you in my head, you had to
Break away and live beyond me in the open sea.
Where did you go?
I wouldn’t stop myself from loving you, but then
What could I be except a shadow of a greater thing?
Where did you go?
You lie here on an open slab, and yet
My hands are buried in my dreams.

If I could count those shiny stones again,
I’d find just seven traded colours and sheens.
If I could count the times your eyes were open
Wandering around the world, I’d end my days.
There’s thirteen years between that day and now,
Unbroken pleasure until now,
And yet some things have stayed the same,
You’re just the same,
You’re just the same,
Except for now your eyes are closed

To me.

Source - https://scontent-a-nrt.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/t1.0-9/10411345_516192415153620_2789620515508780295_n.jpg

The painting is called 'Touch'

Painted by u/picpocgallery - http://www.reddit.com/user/picpocgallery