my literary!kink, let me show you it:
One of my profs has a slightly fanatical love of poetry, which leads to many thrilling minutes listening to old dead British actors reading epics in the middle of class, and printed handouts before class starts. (the treeeeeeeeeeees D:)
But the other day she handed out The Canonization by John Donne, and because my brain is always skewed towards teh gaye, it seemed quite obvious that Mr. Donne could have only been channeling Detective Danny Williams--for the first line at the very least.
SO I MADE ART.
Preview:
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love ;
Or chide my palsy, or my gout ;
My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout ;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve ;
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace ;
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face
Contemplate ; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas ! alas ! who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call's what you will, we are made such by love ;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us ; we two being one, are it ;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse ;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms ;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for love ;
And thus invoke us, "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage ;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage ;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes ;
So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize-
Countries, towns, courts beg from above
A pattern of your love."
~ John Donne
Morbid, you might think, but I have it on good authority that the word 'die' in those days stood in for 'climaxing.' MMMM-HMMMMM. And you know Steve would volunteer to 'die and rise the same,' *nudgenudge**winkwink*
(And, you know, if you felt so inclined to Make This Happen, i would in no way stop you. At all. Epic poems might be written, just saying.)
But the other day she handed out The Canonization by John Donne, and because my brain is always skewed towards teh gaye, it seemed quite obvious that Mr. Donne could have only been channeling Detective Danny Williams--for the first line at the very least.
SO I MADE ART.
Preview:
For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love ;
Or chide my palsy, or my gout ;
My five gray hairs, or ruin'd fortune flout ;
With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve ;
Take you a course, get you a place,
Observe his Honour, or his Grace ;
Or the king's real, or his stamp'd face
Contemplate ; what you will, approve,
So you will let me love.
Alas ! alas ! who's injured by my love?
What merchant's ships have my sighs drown'd?
Who says my tears have overflow'd his ground?
When did my colds a forward spring remove?
When did the heats which my veins fill
Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
Litigious men, which quarrels move,
Though she and I do love.
Call's what you will, we are made such by love ;
Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
And we in us find th' eagle and the dove.
The phoenix riddle hath more wit
By us ; we two being one, are it ;
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
We die and rise the same, and prove
Mysterious by this love.
We can die by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse ;
And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms ;
As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
And by these hymns, all shall approve
Us canonized for love ;
And thus invoke us, "You, whom reverend love
Made one another's hermitage ;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage ;
Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes ;
So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize-
Countries, towns, courts beg from above
A pattern of your love."
~ John Donne
Morbid, you might think, but I have it on good authority that the word 'die' in those days stood in for 'climaxing.' MMMM-HMMMMM. And you know Steve would volunteer to 'die and rise the same,' *nudgenudge**winkwink*
(And, you know, if you felt so inclined to Make This Happen, i would in no way stop you. At all. Epic poems might be written, just saying.)