#johndonne
Words won't die,
But worders do;
The turned phrase stays
Young as you.
Where do these pangs go?
Dying elephants don't know.
Old Hollywood shows,
Brigadoon and El Dorado.
At the bottom of a *** of gold,
Beneath double rainbows.
I read Chaucer
When he was young,
And Emily too,
And Rev. John Donne.
Batter my heart...
Yet feeds
Mine
As I read it once again.
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 8:21 PM UTC
What is this putrid and
vile creature
rapping at my door?
In mangles, borne-
stricken with
a sore decay.
festered arms reaching
thin as blades in winter-
pocked skin draped.
Clawing at gowns
and masks
to no avail.
From such weakened stature
upon the floor
sprawled and lying.
Were ever you proud?
Are you of what John Donne
spoke when he boasted
“Death, be not...”?
Tubes tethered slack
Keep thous poison
from thy veins.
And dance on-
Lo! The broken glory;
rapping still in pain.
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 1:02 PM UTC
Original
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou **** 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.
Translation by Liza Ann Marie
Death, do not be proud. Though some may call you
Mighty and dreadful, you are not that way.
For, those you think you overthrow,
Do not die; Poor Death, you cannot even **** me.
You are like rest and sleep and bring
Much pleasure; and then to you many more flow.
And soon our best men will go with you,
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.
You are a slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men;
In poison, war, and sickness you dwell.
Poppies or charms could make us sleep just as well,
And even better than you could; why pride yourself then?
After one short sleep, we awake again eternally
And you will be no more. Death, you will die.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Thine hours shed themselves,
Moment upon minutes upon hour
curtsy to thy shining name,
leaden with embellishments
of snow and americas of golden
tears.
Stained time, spilt;
to denounce thine image.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC