“For God’s Sake Hold your Tongue and Let me Love”

The BBC is hosting a poetry season and tonight Simon Schema covered John Donne.

I found the programme intensely exciting, not least because they didn’t leave out the actual poetry.  In between telling us about his life (no stupid dramatizations, thank goodness) we had sexy old Fiona Shaw discuss and read some of the poems, really making us pay attention to the language. I haven’t read Donne for years and it made me determined to revisit him soon. He ran such a gamut of human experience: a Roman Catholic in a period in which Catholicism was illegal, a middle-class upstart, a libertine, a convert to Protestantism, a man who married for love against all advice and ended up in prison for his trouble, a professional poet and, finally, a terrifying preacher, Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral in London.

Sexy Donne:

‘The Good-Morrow’

I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not wean’d till then?
But suck’d 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 desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown;
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mix’d equally;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.

Religious Donne:

Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.