the truth about love

john donne is pretty much the most rockin' of the metaphysical poets, and his awesomeness is completely astounding. case in point: "the broken heart," a poem in which he shows modern readers that heartache is both timeless and excruciating. the theme of glass woven beautifully through the last two stanzas is the kind of thing that gets me so excited about writing that i emitted a deep sigh of bittersweet joy the first time i read this. here's hoping he has the same effect on you.

THE BROKEN HEART by John Donne He is stark mad, whoever says, That he hath been in love an hour, Yet not that love so soon decays, But that it can ten in less space devour ; Who will believe me, if I swear That I have had the plague a year? Who would not laugh at me, if I should say I saw a flash of powder burn a day? Ah, what a trifle is a heart, If once into love's hands it come ! All other griefs allow a part To other griefs, and ask themselves but some ; They come to us, but us love draws ; He swallows us and never chaws ; By him, as by chain'd shot, whole ranks do die ; He is the tyrant pike, our hearts the fry. If 'twere not so, what did become Of my heart when I first saw thee? I brought a heart into the room, But from the room I carried none with me. If it had gone to thee, I know Mine would have taught thine heart to show More pity unto me ; but Love, alas ! At one first blow did shiver it as glass. Yet nothing can to nothing fall, Nor any place be empty quite ; Therefore I think my breast hath all Those pieces still, though they be not unite ; And now, as broken glasses show A hundred lesser faces, so My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore, But after one such love, can love no more.

Rilke Rawks

here's the thing about rilke: he wrote so much good stuff that
it's impossible to play favorites or to choose just one poem that speaks for his entire body of work.
nevertheless, "the swan" is pretty much the perfect poem to me. it involves what i consider to be the greatest of all literary
symbols: the swan (see also the mythology behind leda and the swan and tennyson's "tithonus"); evolution; and finally, imagery of water
which adds a smooth feeling of descent after the awkward pace of the first two short stanzas. this poem is a veritable
trifecta of literary loveliness. translated into iambic pentameter - don't ask me how translators do that - rilke proves that
the standard metre of the english language is a mere trifle to his brilliant pate. it's poetry like this that makes me feel
like life is worth living on even the darkest of days when people like nora roberts seem to pervade bestseller lists.



Rainer Maria Rilke

"The Swan"

This laboring through what is still undone,
as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
is like the akward walking of the swan.

And dying-to let go, no longer feel
the solid ground we stand on every day-
is like anxious letting himself fall

into waters, which receive him gently
and which, as though with reverence and joy,
draw back past him in streams on either side;
while, infinitely silent and aware,
in his full majesty and ever more
indifferent, he condescends to glide.


Translated by Stephen Mitchell

the flowers of evil

american hatred of the french is ubiquitous and absurd and dull. i think it springs from a deep jealously of rockin' poets and artists such as baudelaire - or, perhaps, from an ethnocentric abhorrence of escargot. in either case, i hope these poems will redeem some aspect of french culture to those of you who may be on the fence and just need a tiny shove toward embracing all that is lovely, dark and meaningful.

the flowers of evil is a wonderful collection of baudelaire's poetry that i recommend to anyone who claims to dislike poetry - or the french, for that matter. if you still hate poetry after reading baudelaire, i am sorry to say that there is simply no hope for you, my friend. it may be the my second most favorite collection (second only to tennyson, that is), and that alone should make you leap from your chair in a frenzy and rush to find your own copy. i like to think i have that kind of superpower over your mind. please to enjoy.

MUSIC
Music doth uplift me like a sea
Towards my planet pale,
Then through dark fogs or heaven's infinity
I lift my wandering sail.

With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee,
And through the cordage wail,
I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me
Beneath her sombre veil.

I feel the tremblings of all passions known
To ships before the breeze;
Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown

I pass the abysmal seas
That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair
Of my despair!

THE TEMPTATION
The Demon, in my chamber high,
This morning came to visit me,
And, thinking he would find some fault,
He whispered: "I would know of thee

Among the many lovely things
That make the magic of her face,
Among the beauties, black and rose,
That make her body's charm and grace,

Which is most fair?" Thou didst reply
To the Abhorred, O soul of mine:
"No single beauty is the best
When she is all one flower divine.

When all things charm me I ignore
Which one alone brings most delight;
She shines before me like the dawn,
And she consoles me like the night.

The harmony is far too great,
That governs all her body fair,
For impotence to analyse
And say which note is sweetest there.

O mystic metamorphosis!
My senses into one sense flow--
Her voice makes perfume when she speaks,
Her breath is music faint and low!"

BEAUTY
I am as lovely as a dream in stone,
And this my heart where each finds death in turn,
Inspires the poet with a love as lone
As clay eternal and as taciturn.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,
My throne is in the heaven's azure deep;
I hate all movements that disturb my pose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.

Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into the plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods,

For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Have pools of light where beauty flames and dies,
The placid mirrors of my luminous eyes.