Libertarian Shakespeare « Poetry « The ObjectOpus

This appears to be #7 in a sequence; or at the very least, a series of some kind.

Plutarch, of liberal instance, coming forth
In prose, historically reconciled
With fate, persuaded Shakespeare that more worth
Brief freedom has alive and undefiled

Than longevous disgrace enslaved. One must
Consider in accord with courage what
To do, by daily judgment deeming just
Those deeds that quicken liberty. So thought

The poet when Marcus Brutus he perused,
Not from the manly tenor of that book
Withdrawing. Civic wisdom was infused
Into his spine, which would not lightly crook

Upon consensus. Forcibly erect,
No slavish bent he’d suffer in defect.

via Poetry « The ObjectOpus.

Sonnet VII: Gilded Fire

What gilded fire hast thou within me lit
When once thou hast so deep thy fingers prest;
What hale, such perfection doth acquit
When light-acquainted fire doth bestow?

From lightest dost thou brush, to deepest touch;
For verge thou mee as though of thine possessed:
From out thy mastery, ownership as such
For mee, this fiery lightning set aglow.

May’ once, an I escape thee, light as well;
Might fire as hast thou lit be thus expressed;
May’ hearty lightning mine, and flame impel;
Might I, thine elements alight, thee know?

Can I, thy lightning’s fyre, reflect as blest;
Come I, as thy desire shall overflow?

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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John Donne: A Valediction Forbidding Mourning.

Italiano: Immagine del poeta John Donne Donne,...

Italiano: Immagine del poeta John Donne Donne, John (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I was recently reminded of this poem by a commenter.  It made me think, as I have also recently been reminded of Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gently…”   That Donne might also be a champion of life extension scientists, due to the subject of death being so often present in his poetry.  I realise that he was speaking of God and Heaven when writing of the triumph over death, but even so, these works can be read in this other way as well.

AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
“Now his breath goes,” and some say, “No.”

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
‘Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th’ earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers’ love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, ’cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix’d foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th’ other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

via John Donne: A Valediction Forbidding Mourning.

Sonnet: A Key

I love thee so, my sweetest, do I close
Up my romantic soul, and lock away
Its delicate embrace of thee I chose.

And for your sake, my children, shall I hide
Away its key; that none should see its truth
While every day I brave this worldly sway.

And yet, for me, the romance of my youth
Is sore alive, in all that I provide;
As, for thy comfort, every tree I fell;

Until–my wish at last–shall come the day
When all are safe, and everything is well.
My calloused hands, mine axe, shall lay aside;

This key, my soul’s romantic door, display
To thee, and to our children, love and pride.

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Sonnet: Utopia

O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.

If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.

So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.

If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.

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