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    Prose from Poetry Magazine
    Losing It
    By Roxane Gay

    When I was nineteen I wrote a poem called “Tears,” which should tell you everything you need to know about the quality of that work — overwrought, melodramatic, and sublimely tragic. I was mourning a breakup, of course. Poetry, I knew, was the language of love. I had read Elizabeth Barrett Browning: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” And so poetry would also be the language of the end of love. I cringe when I think of that poem now. It was so terrible, so artless. I decided to stick with prose and I have never regretted that decision.

    Because I am a writer and I teach writing, people expect me to know things about poetry. In truth, I know very little about poetry even though I read a great deal. I am vaguely familiar with various forms — sestina, sonnet, cinquain, ghazal. I am very unfamiliar with the craft of poetics — line break, rhyme, meter, image.

    What I do know is that when I read poetry, good poetry, I forget to breathe and my body is suffused with something unnamable — a combination of awe and astonishment and the purest of pleasures. Reading poetry is such a thrill that I often feel like I am getting away with something.

    I will never understand why more people don’t appreciate poetry. 
Even when I am confounded by a poem, my world is changed in some way. Poetry makes me think more carefully about the lyricism and the language I use in my prose. It helps give shape to my writing, helps me bring the reader to the heart of what I want to say. Poetry gives me the strength of conviction to take chances in my writing, to allow myself to be vulnerable.

    Take the poem “Trespassing” by Lisa Mecham, a poem about the night wanderings of teenagers: “Then on the plywood floor, it’s just a boy pounding away / and a girl, her quiet cries turning stars into doves inside.” There is so much captured in that moment — we are given a scene, all too familiar, that is uniquely rendered, haunting, aching, gorgeous.

    Or “Cattails” by Nikky Finney, a prose poem, a rush of words, a story of love and distance, a whole world, and the exquisite phrase, “she is reminded of what falling in love, without permission, smells like.”

    Or xTx, the poem, “Do You Have a Place for Me”: “I will collect your hair / with my mouth / Use the strands / to sew the slices / in my heart.” This was a poem I originally published in a magazine I edited. It was a poem I loved so much that I wrote a story with the same title so I could carry that poem with me forever.

    Or Jericho Brown, on the violence black men and women experience at the hands of cops: “I promise that if you hear / Of me dead anywhere near / A cop, then that cop killed me.” I heard Brown read this poem live and found myself on the edge of my seat, my fingers curled into tight, sweaty fists as I tried to absorb the pain wrapped in the intense beauty of his words.

    Or Eduardo C. Corral, who rocks as he reads his poetry before an audience, who blends English and Spanish and demands that we, as his readers, keep up. He writes of borders, erasing and challenging those that exist while erecting new ones. And then, there is a poem like “Ceremonial,” full of hunger and sorrow and eroticism: “His thumbnail / a flake // of sugar /   he would not / allow me to swallow.”

    Or Aimee Nezhukumatathil, who often uses poetry to write of the wonders of the natural world, who writes about being brown in white America, who writes of being a daughter, of being a wife, of being a mother, of  being a woman making sense of  her own skin. Her poem, “Small Murders,” telling of Antony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, how smells were woven through their loves, and a new suitor, admiring her perfume given by another, “by evening’s end, I let him have it: twenty-seven kisses // on my neck, twenty-
seven small murders of you.” The poem ends with such an elegant twist of a very sharp knife.

    I could write of the poets and poems that reach into my mind, my body, and never run out of words. There is no shortage of excellent poetry in the world. As I sit here, I am surrounded by books by Jonterri Gadson, Solmaz Sharif, Warsan Shire, and Danez Smith. 
I can’t wait to lose myself in their poetry, to become suffused.

    Originally Published: December 29th, 2016
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Charles Baudelaire - French Poet
    Written by: Arthur Symons

    Baudelaire is little known and much misunderstood in England. Only one English writer has ever done him justice, or said anything adequate about him. As long ago as 1862 Swinburne introduced Baudelaire to English readers: in the columns of the Spectator, it is amusing to remember. In 1868 he added a few more words of just and subtle praise in his book on Blake, and in the same year wrote the magnificent elegy on his death, Ave atque Vale. There have been occasional outbreaks of irrelevant abuse or contempt, and the name of Baudelaire (generally mis-spelled) is the journalist's handiest brickbat for hurling at random in the name of respectability. Does all this mean that we are waking up, over here, to the consciousness of one of the great literary forces of the age, a force which has been felt in every other country but ours?

    [Pg 311]

    It would be a useful influence for us. Baudelaire desired perfection, and we have never realized that perfection is a thing to aim at. He only did what he could do supremely well, and he was in poverty all his life, not because he would not work, but because he would work only at certain things, the things which he could hope to do to his own satisfaction. Of the men of letters of our age he was the most scrupulous. He spent his whole life in writing one book of verse (out of which all French poetry has come since his time), one book of prose in which prose becomes a fine art, some criticism which is the sanest, subtlest, and surest which his generation produced, and a translation which is better than a marvelous original. What would French poetry be to-day if Baudelaire had never existed? As different a thing from what it is as English poetry would be without Rossetti. Neither of them is quite among the greatest poets, but they are more fascinating than the greatest, they influence more minds. And Baudelaire was an equally great critic. He discovered Poe, Wagner, and Manet. Where even Sainte-Beuve, with his vast materials,[Pg 312] his vast general talent for criticism, went wrong in contemporary judgments, Baudelaire was infallibly right. He wrote neither verse nor prose with ease, but he would not permit himself to write either without inspiration. His work is without abundance, but it is without waste. It is made out of his whole intellect and all his nerves. Every poem is a train of thought and every essay is the record of sensation. This 'romantic' had something classic in his moderation, a moderation which becomes at times as terrifying as Poe's logic. To 'cultivate one's hysteria' so calmly, and to affront the reader (Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère) as a judge rather than as a penitent; to be a casuist in confession; to be so much a moralist, with so keen a sense of the ecstasy of evil: that has always bewildered the world, even in his own country, where the artist is allowed to live as experimentally as he writes. Baudelaire lived and died solitary, secret, a confessor of sins who has never told the whole truth, le mauvais moine of his own sonnet, an ascetic of passion, a hermit of the brothel.

    To understand, not Baudelaire, but what we can of him, we must read, not only the[Pg 313] four volumes of his collected works, but every document in Crépet's Œuvres Posthumes, and, above all, the letters, and these have only now been collected into a volume, under the care of an editor who has done more for Baudelaire than any one since Crépet. Baudelaire put into his letters only what he cared to reveal of himself at a given moment: he has a different angle to distract the sight of every observer; and let no one think that he knows Baudelaire when he has read the letters to Poulet-Malassis, the friend and publisher, to whom he showed his business side, or the letters to la Présidente, the touchstone of his spleen et idéal, his chief experiment in the higher sentiments. Some of his carefully hidden virtues peep out at moments, it is true, but nothing that everybody has not long been aware of. We hear of his ill-luck with money, with proof-sheets, with his own health. The tragedy of the life which he chose, as he chose all things (poetry, Jeanne Duval, the 'artificial paradises') deliberately, is made a little clearer to us; we can moralise over it if we like. But the man remains baffling, and will probably never be discovered.

    [Pg 314]

    As it is, much of the value of the book consists in those glimpses into his mind and intentions which he allowed people now and then to see. Writing to Sainte-Beuve, to Flaubert, to Soulary, he sometimes lets out, through mere sensitiveness to an intelligence capable of understanding him, some little interesting secret. Thus it is to Sainte-Beuve that he defines and explains the origin and real meaning of the Petits Poèmes en Prose: Faire cent bagatelles laborieuses qui exigent une bonne humeur constante (bonne humeur nécessaire, même pour traiter des sujets tristes), une excitation bizarre qui a besoin de spectacles, de foules, de musiques, de réverbères même, voilà ce que j'ai voulu faire! And, writing to some obscure person, he will take the trouble to be even more explicit, as in this symbol of the sonnet: Avez-vous observé qu'un morceau de ciel aperçu par un soupirail, ou entre deux cheminées, deux rochers, ou par une arcade, donnait une idée plus profonde de l'infini que le grand panorama vu du haul d'une montagne? It is to another casual person that he speaks out still more intimately (and the occasion of his writing is some thrill of[Pg 315] gratitude towards one who had at last done 'a little justice,' not to himself, but to Manet): Eh bien! on m'accuse, moi, d'imiter Edgar Poe! Savez-vous pourquoi j'ai si patiemment traduit Poe? Parce qu'il me ressemblait. La première fois que j'ai ouvert un livre de lui, j'ai vu avec épouvante et ravissement, non seulement des sujets rêvés par moi, mais des phrases, pensées par moi, et écrites par lui, vingt ans auparavant. It is in such glimpses as these that we see something of Baudelaire in his letters.

    1906.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  3. #3
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    John Donne's Life and Poetry

    Written by: William J. Long

    Life. The briefest outline of Donne's life shows its intense human interest. He was born in London, the son of a rich iron merchant, at the time when the merchants of England were creating a new and higher kind of princes. On his father's side he came from an old Welsh family, and on his mother's side from the Heywoods and Sir Thomas More's family. Both families were Catholic, and in his early life persecution was brought near; for his brother died in prison for harboring a proscribed priest, and his own education could not be continued in Oxford and Cambridge because of his religion. Such an experience generally sets a man's religious standards for life; but presently Donne, as he studied law at Lincoln's Inn, was investigating the philosophic grounds of all faith. Gradually he left the church in which he was born, renounced all denominations, and called himself simply Christian. Meanwhile he wrote poetry and shared his wealth with needy Catholic relatives. He joined the expedition of Essex for Cadiz in 1596, and for the Azores in 1597, and on sea and in camp found time to write poetry. Two of his best poems, "The Storm" and "The Calm," belong to this period. Next he traveled in Europe for three years, but occupied himself with study and poetry. Returning home, he became secretary to Lord Egerton, fell in love with the latter's young niece, Anne More, and married her; for which cause Donne was cast into prison. Strangely enough his poetical work at this time is not a song of youthful romance, but "The Progress of the Soul," a study of transmigration. Years of wandering and poverty followed, until Sir George More forgave the young lovers and made an allowance to his daughter. Instead of enjoying his new comforts, Donne grew more ascetic and intellectual in his tastes. He refused also the nattering offer of entering the Church of England and of receiving a comfortable "living." By his "Pseudo Martyr" he attracted the favor of James I, who persuaded him to be ordained, yet left him without any place or employment. When his wife died her allowance ceased, and Donne was left with seven children in extreme poverty. Then he became a preacher, rose rapidly by sheer intellectual force and genius, and in four years was the greatest of English preachers and Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral in London. There he "carried some to heaven in holy raptures and led others to amend their lives," and as he leans over the pulpit with intense earnestness is likened by Izaak Walton to "an angel leaning from a cloud."

    Here is variety enough to epitomize his age, and yet in all his life, stronger than any impression of outward weal or woe, is the sense of mystery that surrounds Donne. In all his work one finds a mystery, a hiding of some deep thing which the world would gladly know and share, and which is suggested in his haunting little poem, "The Undertaking":

    I have done one braver thing
    Than all the worthies did;
    And yet a braver thence doth spring,
    Which is, to keep that hid.

    Donne's Poetry. Donne's poetry is so uneven, at times so startling and fantastic, that few critics would care to recommend it to others. Only a few will read his works, and they must be left to their own browsing, to find what pleases them, like deer which, in the midst of plenty, take a bite here and there and wander on, tasting twenty varieties of food in an hour's feeding. One who reads much will probably bewail Donne's lack of any consistent style or literary standard. For instance, Chaucer and Milton are as different as two poets could well be; yet the work of each is marked by a distinct and consistent style, and it is the style as much as the matter which makes the Tales or the Paradise Lost a work for all time. Donne threw style and all literary standards to the winds; and precisely for this reason he is forgotten, though his great intellect and his genius had marked him as one of those who should do things "worthy to be remembered." While the tendency of literature is to exalt style at the expense of thought, the world has many men and women who exalt feeling and thought above expression; and to these Donne is good reading. Browning is of the same school, and compels attention. While Donne played havoc with Elizabethan style, he nevertheless influenced our literature in the way of boldness and originality; and the present tendency is to give him a larger place, nearer to the few great poets, than he has occupied since Ben Jonson declared that he was "the first poet of the world in some things," but likely to perish "for not being understood." For to much of his poetry we must apply his own satiric verses on another's crudities:

    Infinite work! which doth so far extend
    That none can study it to any end.


    ************************************************** ***
    ************************************************** ***


    Methinks that Donne's critics, were either to blind to see his genius, too jealous to admit his massive talent, and/or so full of shit that their envious eyes were brown.
    I identify with Donne greatly myself, in his poetic philosophy. -Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 03-10-2017 at 08:53 PM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Tapping Into Creativity, For Logical Types
    Written by: Donovan Willis

    I starting writing about four years ago. I was studying a chemistry and mathematics course at university, a very much non-literate oriented field of study. Ruled by logic, I set out to write. It was difficult as the writing came out primitive and it was difficult to read and understand it myself. Very much enthusiastic about the matter, I continued in my hyper-graphic state to produce what I considered “art”. The first year was the hardest but I told myself everyday, to write a little everyday: a thought, a poem, a quote or anything. The first step was to open the channel for the creative process to take place and as my good friend has told me ‘consistency is fashion’. I never thought about syntax or what was considered good form, but rather the act of writing was most important. I shared my writing with nobody, until this day, I still haven’t shared those early works. My next objective after opening the channel for creativity, was to build confidence. I made writing into an enjoyable activity by trying to express my thoughts in a structured yet artistic way. I never fretted about English devices but used a strength so inherent in my personality type: abstraction. Like connecting the dots in mathematics, one could do the same in literature. Leaving bread crumbs for the reader to enjoy the big picture, I used my scientific rigor to analyze my poems. For even art has rules. Some can be broken while others can be bent to your will.

    Thirdly, I didn’t try change myself. I knew that like a good data model, a poem needs to get the message across in a relatable format. I decided to write as simply as possible. As people need to relate to your message. So I stuck with these three principles:

    Write Often : A little everyday, is a lot over the long run.

    Build Confidence : Share a little, learn a lot.

    Keep It Simple : Sometimes complexity diminishes power

    This I found allowed me to tap into my creative side. I began building better poems by allowing the reader to interpret depth. Today, I am truly happy to write. It's not complicated, just pick up that pen and go for it! It is with great joy for me to share my work and I can definitely say that I am creative! I hope this helps you like it has helped me!
    Definitely on the right track and I agree-in that with most poems simpler is better(as it reaches a wider audience).
    Yet some poems are meant to be more complex and much, much deeper.
    These are to be written without regard to the lesser minds that simply will not fathom them..
    To each his own spoon and milk....- -Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Home » Articles » The Life and Works of John Donne

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    The Life and Works of John Donne
    Written by: Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th Edition

    DONNE, JOHN (1573-1631), English poet and divine of the reign of James I., was born in 1573 in the parish of St Nicholas Olave, in the city of London. His father was a wealthy merchant, who next year became warden of the Company of Ironmongers, but died early in 1576. Donne’s parents were Catholics, and his mother, Elizabeth Heywood, was directly descended from the sister of the great Sir Thomas More; she was the daughter of John Heywood the epigrammatist. As a child, Donne’s precocity was such that it was said of him that “this age hath brought forth another Pico della Mirandola.” He entered Hart Hall, Oxford, in October 1584, and left it in 1587, proceeding for a time to Cambridge, where he took his degree. At Oxford he began his friendship with Henry Wotton, and at Cambridge, probably, with Christopher Brooke. Donne was “removed to London” about 1590, and in 1592 he entered Lincoln’s Inn with the intention of studying the law.

    When he came of age, he found himself in possession of a considerable fortune, and about the same time rejected the Catholic doctrine in favour of the Anglican communion. He began to produce Satires, which were not printed, but eagerly passed from hand to hand; the first three are known to belong to 1593, the fourth to 1594, while the other three are probably some years later. In 1596 Donne engaged himself for foreign service under the earl of Essex, and “waited upon his lordship” on board the “Repulse,” in the magnificent victory of the 11th of June. We possess several poems written by Donne during this expedition, and during the Islands Voyage of 1597, in which he accompanied Essex to the Azores. According to Walton, Donne spent some time in Italy and Spain, and intended to proceed to Palestine, “but at his being in the farthest parts of Italy, the disappointment of company, or of a safe convoy, or the uncertainty of returns of money into those remote parts, denied him that happiness.” There is some reason to suppose that he was on the continent at intervals between 1595 and the winter of 1597. His lyrical poetry was mainly the product of his exile, if we are to believe Ben Jonson, who told Drummond of Hawthornden that Donne “wrote all his best pieces ere he was 25 years old.” At his return to England he became private secretary in London to Sir Thomas Egerton, the lord keeper (afterwards Lord Brackley), in whose family he remained four years. In 1600 he found himself in love with his master’s niece, Anne More, whom he married secretly in December 1601. As soon as this act was discovered, Donne was dismissed, and then thrown into the Fleet prison (February 1602), from which he was soon released. His circumstances, however, were now very much straitened. His own fortune had all been spent and “troubles did still multiply upon him.” Mrs Donne’s cousin, Sir Francis Wooley, offered the young couple an asylum at his country house of Pyrford, where they resided until the end of 1604.

    During the latter part of his residence in Sir Thomas Egerton’s house, Donne had composed the longest of his existing poems, The Progress of the Soul, not published until 1633. In the spring of 1605 we find the Donnes living at Camberwell, and a little later in a small house at Mitcham. He had by this time “acquired such a perfection” in civil and common law that he was able to take up professional work, and he now acted as a helper to Thomas Morton in his controversies with the Catholics. Donne is believed to have had a considerable share in writing the pamphlets against the papists which Morton issued between 1604 and 1607. In the latter year, Morton offered the poet certain preferment in the Church, if he would only consent to take holy orders. Donne, however, although he was at this time become deeply serious on religious matters, did not think himself fitted for the clerical life. In 1607 he started a correspondence with Mrs Magdalen Herbert of Montgomery Castle, the mother of George Herbert. Some of these pious epistles were printed by Izaak Walton. These exercises were not of a nature to add to his income, which was extremely small. His uncomfortable little house he speaks of as his “hospital” and his “prison;” his wife’s health was broken and he was bowed down by the number of his children, who often lacked even clothes and food. In the autumn of 1608, however, his father-in-law, Sir George More, became reconciled with them, and agreed to make them a generous allowance. Donne soon after formed part of the brilliant assemblage which Lucy, countess of Bradford, gathered around her at Twickenham; we possess several of the verse epistles he addressed to this lady. In 1609 Donne was engaged in composing his great controversial prose treatise, the Pseudo-Martyr, printed in 1610; this was an attempt to convince Roman Catholics in England that they might, without any inconsistency, take the oath of allegiance to James I. In 1611 Donne wrote a curious and bitter prose squib against the Jesuits, entitledIgnatius his Conclave. To the same period, but possibly somewhat earlier, belongs the apology for the principle of suicide, which was not published until 1644, long after Donne’s death. This work, the Biathanatos, is an attempt to show that “the scandalous disease 418of headlong dying,” to which Donne himself in his unhappy moods had “often such a sickly inclination,” was not necessarily and essentially sinful.

    In 1610 Donne formed the acquaintance of a wealthy gentleman, Sir Robert Drury of Hawsted, who offered him and his wife an apartment in his large house in Drury Lane. Drury lost his only daughter, and in 1611 Donne published an extravagant elegy on her, entitled An Anatomy of the World, to which he added in 1612 a Progress of the Soul on the same subject; he threatened to celebrate the “blessèd Maid,” Elizabeth Drury, in a fresh elegy on each anniversary of her death, but he happily refrained from the third occasion onwards. At the close of 1611 Sir Robert Drury determined to visit Paris (but not, as Walton supposed, on an embassy of any kind), and he took Donne with him. When he left London, his wife was expecting an eighth child. It seems almost certain that her fear to have him absent led him to compose one of his loveliest poems:

    “Sweetest Love, I do not go

    For weariness of thee.”

    He is said to have had a vision, while he was at Amiens, of his wife, with her hair over her shoulders, bearing a dead child in her arms, on the very night that Mrs Donne, in London (or more probably in the Isle of Wight), was delivered of a still-born infant. He suffered, accordingly, a great anxiety, which was not removed until he reached Paris, where he received reassuring accounts of his wife’s health. The Drurys and Donne left Paris for Spa in May 1612, and travelled in the Low Countries and Germany until September, when they returned to London. In 1613 Donne contributed to the Lachrymae lachrymarum an obscure and frigid elegy on the death of the prince of Wales, and wrote his famous Marriage Song for St Valentine’s Day to celebrate the nuptials of the elector palatine with the princess Elizabeth. About this time Donne became intimate with Robert Ker, then Viscount Rochester and afterwards the infamous earl of Somerset, from whom he had hopes of preferment at court. Donne was now in weak health, and in a highly neurotic condition. He suggested to Rochester that if he should enter the church, a place there might be found for him. But he was more useful to the courtier in his legal capacity, and Rochester dissuaded him from the ministry. At the close of 1614, however, the king sent for Donne to Theobald’s, and “descended to a persuasion, almost to a solicitation of him, to enter into sacred orders,” but Donne asked for a few days to consider. Finally, early in 1614, King, bishop of London, “proceeded with all convenient speed to ordain him, first deacon, then priest.” He was, perhaps, a curate first at Paddington, and presently was appointed royal chaplain.

    His earliest sermon before the king at Whitehall carried his audience “to heaven, in holy raptures.” In April, not without much bad grace, the university of Cambridge consented to make the new divine a D.D. In the spring of 1616, Donne was presented to the living of Keyston, in Hunts., and a little later he became rector of Sevenoaks; the latter preferment he held until his death. In October he was appointed reader in divinity to the benchers of Lincoln’s Inn. His anxieties about money now ceased, but in August 1617 his wife died, leaving seven young children in his charge. Perhaps in consequence of his bereavement, Donne seems to have passed through a spiritual crisis, which inspired him with a peculiar fervour of devotion. In 1618 he wrote two cycles of religious sonnets, La Corona and the Holy Sonnets, the latter not printed in complete form until by Mr Gosse in 1899. Of the very numerous sermons preached by Donne at Lincoln’s Inn, fourteen have come down to us. His health suffered from the austerity of his life, and it was probably in connexion with this fact that he allowed himself to be persuaded in May 1619 to accompany Lord Doncaster as his chaplain on an embassy to Germany. Having visited Heidelberg, Frankfort and other German cities, the embassy returned to England at the opening of 1620.

    In November 1621, James I., knowing that London was “a dish” which Donne “loved well,” “carved” for him the deanery of St Paul’s. He resigned Keyston, and his preachership in Lincoln’s Inn (Feb., 1622). In October 1623 he suffered from a dangerous attack of illness, and during a long convalescence wrote his Devotions, a volume published in 1624. He was now appointed to the vicarage of St Dunstan’s in the West. In April 1625 Donne preached before the new king, Charles I., a sermon which was immediately printed, and he now published his Four Sermons upon Special Occasions, the earliest collection of his discourses. When the plague broke out he retired with his children to the house of Sir John Danvers in Chiswick, and for a time he disappeared so completely that a rumour arose that he was dead. Sir John had married Donne’s old friend, Mrs Magdalen Herbert, for whom Donne wrote two of the most ingenious of his lyrics, “The Primrose” and “The Autumnal.” The popularity of Donne as a preacher rose to its zenith when he returned to his pulpit, and it continued there until his death. Walton, who seems to have known him first in 1624, now became an intimate and adoring friend. In 1630 Donne’s health, always feeble, broke down completely, so that, although in August of that year he was to have been made a bishop, the entire breakdown of his health made it worse than useless to promote him. The greater part of that winter he spent at Abury Hatch, in Epping Forest, with his widowed daughter, Constance Alleyn, and was too ill to preach before the king at Christmas. It is believed that his disease was a malarial form of recurrent quinsy acting upon an extremely neurotic system. He came back to London, and was able to preach at Whitehall on the 12th of February 1631. This, his latest sermon, was published, soon after his demise, as Death’s Duel. He now stood for his statue to the sculptor, Nicholas Stone, standing before a fire in his study at the Deanery, with his winding-sheet wrapped and tied round him, his eyes shut, and his feet resting on a funeral urn. This lugubrious work of art was set up in white marble after his death in St Paul’s cathedral, where it may still be seen. Donne died on the 31st of March 1631, after he had lain “fifteen days earnestly expecting his hourly change.” His aged mother, who had lived in the Deanery, survived him, dying in 1632.

    Donne’s poems were first collected in 1633, and afterwards in 1635, 1639, 1649, 1650, 1654 and 1669. Of his prose works, the Juvenilia appeared in 1633; the LXXX Sermons in 1640; Biathanatos in 1644; Fifty Sermons in 1649; Essays in Divinity, 1651; his Letters to Several Persons of Honour, 1651; Paradoxes, Problems and Essays, 1652; and Six and Twenty Sermons, 1661. Izaak Walton’s Life of Donne, an admirably written but not entirely correct biography, preceded the Sermons of 1640. The principal editor of his posthumous writings was his son, John Donne the younger (1604-1662), a man of eccentric and scandalous character, but of considerable talent.

    The influence of Donne upon the literature of England was singularly wide and deep, although almost wholly malign. His originality and the fervour of his imaginative passion made him extremely attractive to the younger generation of poets, who saw that he had broken through the old tradition, and were ready to follow him implicitly into new fields. In the 18th century his reputation almost disappeared, to return, with many vicissitudes in the course of the 19th. It is, indeed, singularly difficult to pronounce a judicious opinion on the writings of Donne. They were excessively admired by his own and the next generation, praised by Dryden, paraphrased by Pope, and then entirely neglected for a whole century. The first impression of an unbiased reader who dips into the poems of Donne is unfavorable. He is repulsed by the intolerably harsh and crabbed versification, by the recondite choice of theme and expression, and by the oddity of the thought. In time, however, he perceives that behind the fantastic garb of language there is an earnest and vigorous mind, an imagination that harbors fire within its cloudy folds, and an insight into the mysteries of spiritual life which is often startling. Donne excels in brief flashes of wit and beauty, and in sudden daring phrases that have the full perfume of poetry in them. Some of his lyrics and one or two of his elegies excepted, the Satires are his most important contribution to literature. They are probably the earliest poems of their kind in the language, and they are full of force and picturesqueness. Their obscure and knotty language only serves to give peculiar 419brilliancy to the not uncommon passages of noble perspicacity. To the odd terminology of Donne’s poetic philosophy Dryden gave the name of “metaphysics,” and Johnson, borrowing the suggestion, invented the title of the “metaphysical school” to describe, not Donne only, but all the amorous and philosophical poets who succeeded him, and who employed a similarly fantastic language, and who affected odd figurative inversions.

    Izaak Walton’s Life, first published in 1640, and entirely recast in 1659, has been constantly reprinted. The best edition of Donne’s Poems was edited by E. K. Chambers in 1896. His prose works have not been collected. In 1899 Edmund Gosse published in two volumes The Life and Letters of John Donne, for the first time revised and collected.

    In the 18th century his reputation almost disappeared, to return, with many vicissitudes in the course of the 19th. It is, indeed, singularly difficult to pronounce a judicious opinion on the writings of Donne. They were excessively admired by his own and the next generation, praised by Dryden, paraphrased by Pope, and then entirely neglected for a whole century. The first impression of an unbiased reader who dips into the poems of Donne is unfavorable. He is repulsed by the intolerably harsh and crabbed versification, by the recondite choice of theme and expression, and by the oddity of the thought. In time, however, he perceives that behind the fantastic garb of language there is an earnest and vigorous mind, an imagination that harbors fire within its cloudy folds, and an insight into the mysteries of spiritual life which is often startling. Donne excels in brief flashes of wit and beauty, and in sudden daring phrases that have the full perfume of poetry in them. Some of his lyrics and one or two of his elegies excepted, the Satires are his most important contribution to literature. They are probably the earliest poems of their kind in the language, and they are full of force and picturesqueness. Their obscure and knotty language only serves to give peculiar brilliancy to the not uncommon passages of noble perspicacity. To the odd terminology of Donne’s poetic philosophy Dryden gave the name of “metaphysics,” and Johnson, borrowing the suggestion, invented the title of the “metaphysical school” to describe, not Donne only, but all the amorous and philosophical poets who succeeded him, and who employed a similarly fantastic language, and who affected odd figurative inversions.
    Their obscure and knotty language only serves to give peculiar brilliancy to the not uncommon passages of noble perspicacity. To the odd terminology of Donne’s poetic philosophy Dryden gave the name of “metaphysics,” and Johnson, borrowing the suggestion, invented the title of the “metaphysical school” to describe, not Donne only, but all the amorous and philosophical poets who succeeded him, and who employed a similarly fantastic language, and who affected odd figurative inversions.

    I FOUND DONNE TO BE A POETIC GENIUS THE FIRST TIME I STUDIED HIS POETRY.
    His immense depth of thought and brilliance was evident to me from the onset. Perhaps because I read so many other classic poets before finding Donne. That foundation gave me insight and better understanding. I took what I could , given my own poetry education and lesser talent and found common ground in the -- often (for me), ""odd terminology""...
    Writing in a mixture of Fran Stanton simplicity , but embracing depth of thought by way of -- ""odd terminology""..-Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 06-08-2017 at 06:01 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Note- Although this touches on being political, I post it primarily to note another example of the power of poetry in our culture...
    If desiring to comment, then please do so in regards to aspects of the poem, its virtues and the author's body of work and great poetic talents.
    All comments regarding politics , will be deleted.
    Thank you.. -Tyr



    Poetry News
    Emma Lazarus's 'The New Colossus' Causes Rift Between White House Aide & CNN Anchor
    By Harriet Staff

    Emma Lazarus

    Headlines making waves: On Wednesday, CNN reporter Jim Acosta quoted the most famous couplet from Emma Lazarus's 1883 poem "The New Colossus" in a public disagreement with White House senior aide Stephen Miller. Newsweek reports on the story:

    Acosta questioned whether the new green card system being proposed was in keeping with U.S. history and invoked Lazarus’s poem to make his point.

    “What you’re proposing, or what the President is proposing here does not sound like it’s in keeping with American tradition when it comes to immigration. The Statue of Liberty says, 'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.' It doesn’t say anything about speaking English or being able to be a computer programmer," Acosta said.

    “Aren’t you trying to change what it means to be an immigrant coming into this country if you’re telling them you have to speak English?” he asked.

    The new immigration bill in question, endorsed by Donald Trump, seeks to cut immigration in half. "The legislation would [also] award points based on education, ability to speak English, high-paying job offers, age, record of achievement and entrepreneurial initiative," as reported in the New York Times. As for the controversy over the poem:

    Miller in his rebuttal questioned whether [the] poem was really representative of U.S. values on the basis it had been added to the statue after it was conceived as a symbol of American liberty. “The poem that you’re referring to, that was added later, is not actually a part of the original Statue of Liberty,” he said.

    In a later back and forth, Miller referred to the “Statue of Liberty law of the land” asking the CNN journalist in what decade and which number of people entering the country each year he approved of U.S. immigration policy.

    According to the National Park’s service, the Statue of Liberty’s official name is Liberty Enlightening the world. Lazarus's famous sonnet depicts the Statue as the "Mother of Exiles:" a symbol of immigration and opportunity - symbols associated with the Statue of Liberty today. One of Lazarus’s friends began a campaign promoting her work after her death in 1887 and in 1903 the words of the poem were inscribed on a plaque and placed on the inner wall of the pedestal of the statue.

    Find the whole story at Newsweek.
    Originally Published: August 3rd, 2017
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    biography
    edmund wilson, jr.
    1895–1972


    as one of the nation’s foremost literary critics, edmund wilson enjoyed a high position in the world of american letters. L.e. Sissman called him “the greatest of our critics of this century, and among the three or four greatest—along with t.s. Eliot, wallace stevens, and f. Scott fitzgerald—of our literary men.” wilson, according to t.s. Matthews, was “the foremost american man of letters of the twentieth century.” norman podhoretz judged wilson as “one of the greatest men of letters this country has ever produced.”

    wilson’s influence upon american literature was substantial. Warner berthoff said that “for nearly every important development in contemporary writing edmund wilson was in some way a spokesman—an arbiter of taste, a supplier of perspective, at the least (to adapt his own phrase for hemingway) a gauge of intellectual morale.” leonard kriegel described wilson’s writing as “one of the standards of sanity in this culture.” despite misgivings about some of wilson’s strongly held opinions, berthoff believed that “all who have to do with literature have played parasite to his writings, his discoveries and revaluations, and are too much in his debt to allow much complaining. He has been one of his time’s indispensable teachers and transmitters of important news.”

    one of wilson’s most important contributions was his role in giving an international perspective to american literature. Speaking of this, sissman praised wilson for his “destruction of the literary isolationism of this continent.” “no man,” anthony burgess wrote, “has had a profounder influence on the capacity of a couple of generations (including my own) to form its own judgements on a very large and important sector of european literature.” a times literary supplement reviewer cited wilson’s “incontestably important task” as “explaining the world to america and explaining america to itself.”

    axel’s castle, wilson’s first book of literary criticism, established his reputation as a critic and still stands as one of his most important works. Sherman paul explained that the book, a study of the symbolist literary movement, “established the writers of the avant garde in the consciousness of the general reader: Not only did it place them in a significant historical development, it taught the uninitiated how to read them.” pointing out the book’s lasting value, taylor stated that “it is that rare work that can never really be dated or superseded.” kriegel agreed, writing that “the book remains one of the truly seminal works of literary criticism published in our century.”

    wilson’s strongly held opinions were expressed in a manner that drew respect from even those readers who did not agree with him. When reading wilson, burgess claimed, one was “enlightened with conclusions that, so well are they stated and so logically arrived at, appear inevitable and hence obvious.” george h. Douglas believed that “even when we find [wilson’s] ideas eccentric, perverse, and opinionated, as at times all of his readers must, we cannot but admire his ability to think through all of his problems for himself, his ceaseless endeavor to understand the world that confronts him and bring some order to it.” alfred kazin wrote that wilson “fascinates even when he is wrong.” joseph epstein observed that “the stamp of wilson’s personality was on every sentence he wrote, yet nothing he wrote could by any stretch of the imagination be called ‘personable’.” nevertheless, he admired wilson as “a living embodiment of the belief in literature . . . As a guide to life, and a weapon . . . With which to bring some sort of order to an otherwise possibly quite senseless world.”

    wilson’s concern with literary values was reflected in his concern for political values as well. “he always retained his strong faith in our american democratic traditions,” douglas wrote, “even though he found the original dream of the founding fathers foundering in a sea of commercial ethics and impersonal, insensate government.” after a brief interest in socialism, culminating in to the finland station, a study of the subject, wilson grew disillusioned with politics. His writings after world war ii ignored the contemporary scene. “having lived through two world wars in which he did not believe,” robert emmet long wrote, “[wilson could] no longer believe in the power of rationality to create a humane and meaningful world.” despite his disillusionment with politics, wilson protested the cold war of the 1950s by not paying his income taxes for nine years on the grounds that the money was used to purchase nuclear and bacteriological weapons.

    “some years before he died,” luckett stated, “[wilson] attempted an assessment of his own contribution to modern literature, and seemed content to stand on his achievements as an interpreter, explaining the characteristics of the literatures of other nations to readers in the united states. This was absurdly modest.” matthews believed that wilson’s “place in the hall of literary immortals is secure.” summing up wilson’s career, douglas wrote: “he was not only an imaginative writer of the first rank but a great democratic idealist, and a spokesman for liberal learning in the best sense. And the combination of these virtues produced for us a remarkable body of works which is sure to remain one of the great contributions to american literature of the 20th century.”

    wilson’s substantive contribution has continued even after his death, in the form of the many volumes of his writings that have been published in the ensuing decades. Among these are wilson’s journals from the 1930s to 1960s. According to lewis m. Dabney, editor of the final volume in the series, “the strength of wilson’s criticism and histories is his mastery of concrete details, and the journals illustrate his ability to catch the essence of a time and situation.” julian symons argued in the times literary supplement, “the primary impression left by any of these volumes covering the decades is of admiration for the power of wilson’s mind, and astonishment at the variety of his interests and the voracious curiosity with which he informs himself about them.”

    among the other notable posthumous publications of wilson’s writings, in the opinion of david castronovo, was letters on literature and politics 1912-1972. In an essay for the dictionary of literary biography, castronovo wrote that “this collection shows the range of wilson’s informal interests as well as a partial record of his varied and often hectic life. Many of the letters also reveal him in the role of friend and encourager—a guider and nurturer of talent and relentless battler with circumstances, both personal and social, that keep writers from working.”

    the portable edmund wilson, also edited by lewis dabney, gathered work that was representative of wilson’s remarkable career. Of its selections, saul goodwin proposed in the national review “that wilson, himself a pretty fair anthologist, would have been satisfied with the results.” r.w.b. Lewis, disappointed by the absence of representative fiction and poetry in the collection, nevertheless remarked in the new york times book review that the anthology does reveal wilson in the role of “critic of history.” lewis added, “to suggest the extraordinary reach of the man, one need only list the most powerful and comprehensive essays in [the portable edmund wilson,] those on marx and engels, dickens, the supreme court’s oliver wendell holmes, and the philoctetes myth.” gross expressed similar sentiments. “within the limits of portability,” he wrote, “it is everything that could reasonably be asked for, and even readers who know wilson’s work well will find that they come away from it with a renewed sense of his many-sidedness and his prodigious gifts.” christopher hawtree asserted in spectator: “a hod or a trolley would be necessary for the amount of edmund wilson’s writing one would wish to be in print.”

    more of wilson’s magazine essays and articles were brought together in book form in 1995 by castronovo and janet groth in from the uncollected edmund wilson. The 50 pieces in this collection, arranged chronologically, cover nearly 50 years, range over the course of wilson’s life from his student days prior to world war i up to 1959. Included are many of the articles and essays wilson wrote for the new yorker in the 1940s and 1950s. “the selections,” according to a reviewer for publishers weekly, “show wilson’s scholarship, the maturation of his keen, expressive voice and the emergence of his humanistic concerns. … a feast for wilson devotees.”

    in addition to his literary criticism, social commentary, and journalistic writings, wilson also penned novels, stories, poems, and plays. His first novel, i thought of daisy, is set in the 1920s in greenwich village in new york city. Described by a critic for kirkus reviews as “a tale of love, art, and politics,” i thought of daisy is a realistic narrative that relates the story of a young man who abandons bohemian life after he meets and falls in love with a chorus girl whom he sees as an american ideal. Picturesque characters abound in the portrait wilson paints of the era, including several based on real-life prototypes and friends such as john dos passos and edna st. Vincent millay. Wilson initially saw the novel as his own emulation of writers such as joyce and proust. However, the kirkus reviews critic noted “his episodic tale is more in the american grain.” in a 1950s edition of the novel, wilson added a preface that criticized his own work and described the book as flawed. The kirkus reviews critic concluded: “he was too hard on himself—the book stands up to time.”

    in the early 1940s wilson worked on a novel that remained unfinished. Covering a period of two years in the late 1920s and dealing with the end of the jazz age and the beginning of the great depression brought on by the stock market crash of 1929, the unfinished manuscript, edited by neale reinitz, was published in 1998 as the higher jazz (reinitz’s title). Yale-educated fritz dietrich, a young businessman and would-be composer, is the protagonist of the book. Fritz’s aim is to create a classical composition that incorporates the essence of american popular music. As in i thought of daisy, a number of characters in the higher jazz are thinly disguised fictions of prominent literary figures of the era, including robert benchley, dorothy parker, and f. Scott and zelda fitzgerald. In his review of the higher jazz for the new york times book review, david walton commented that “there are too many characters in the novel, and not much plot for them to be essential to.” walton also noted that the novel had “a lot of clever dialogue—all of it mildly engaging, but never very captivating.” walton felt that reinitz’s commentaries, which connected events and characters in the higher jazz to wilson’s life, were “the chief interest of the book.” expressing a different opinion was a writer for kirkus reviews, who noted the book’s “haunting set pieces that depict fritz’s uneasy circulation among manhattan’s nightclubs, burlesque shows, and florid artistic circles,” and went on to praise wilson’s “considerable skill as a novelist.” in a like vein, a reviewer for publishers weekly remarked: “with an eye and ear for fashion and upper-class folly that may remind admirers of tom wolfe, wilson treats us to a bird’s eye view of the ‘whole night club racket, the hudson valley gentry and the algonquin table regulars.”

    speaking of wilson’s standing in literature at the start of the twenty-first century, castronovo commented: “wilson’s name still stands for tireless dedication to literature, relentless pursuit of libertarian and progressive ideas, and yearning to transcend the limits of class, critical category, and fashion. His reputation, as well as threats to it, rests on his identity as a professor without a university, a critic without a field, a historian without a period, a thinker without a school.” in his review of jeffrey meyers’s edmund wilson: A biography for commentary, john gross stated: “the literary wilson will live. The longer the shadows cast over the field of literary studies by today’s deconstructionists and ideologues, the brighter his achievement will shine.”
    although i am no big fan of his political ideas, i do recognize his great talent and high intelligence, as well as his great poems.--tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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