#johndonne

[textos-como-trechos-de-um-livro]

[beautifulbizarremagazine]

How dreamy and romantic. Gorgeous illustration by @mikkilee.art, inspired by John Donne's The Good-Morrow. posted on Instagram - https://instagr.am/p/CPKk2aPrVE2/

[youravishme]

Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

John Donne

[gabrielgraetz]

A Sonnet for Eels

A Sonnet on the Occasion of the Call for Communing with the Eels of the Sumida Aquarium

by Gabriel Graetz, in the style of John Donne

                      _______________________________________  

For thou, o slender, dappled, furtive things,

And for the gladness of this wicked earth,

Will I, as doves on heaven-mounting wings,

Spring up and prove my specie’s doubtful worth.

Fear not the face of man, nor fly his speech,

As all do dote and praise thy sinuous charms,

And merely wish, as humble pilgrims each,

That thou couldst give embrace with absent arms.

Perchance thou see’st the cruelty of man’s deeds,

His coldness, hardness, vanity and spite,

How truth and kindness not one wise man heeds,

While perjury and folly breed delight.

But, gentle friends, think not that all our kind

Be brutes who only gold and rule desire,

For many hold a kinder, clearer mind,

And wish for peace and charity entire.

Then, as my face to yours stands plain and clear,

Remember this: ’tis love that conquers fear.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/may/01/japanese-aquarium-urges-public-to-video-chat-eels-who-are-forgetting-humans-exist

[generallygothic]

'The Apparition' When by thy scorn, O murd'ress, I am dead And that thou think'st thee free From all solicitation from me, Then shall my ghost come to thy bed, And thee, feign'd vestal, in worse arms shall see; Then thy sick taper will begin to wink, And he, whose thou art then, being tir'd before, Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think Thou call'st for more, And in false sleep will from thee shrink; And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou Bath'd in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie A verier ghost than I. What I will say, I will not tell thee now, Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent, I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent, Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent. - John Donne, English metaphysical poet (1572-1631). 📸: 'Spirit', 1885, by French artist George Roux (1853-1929) via @Reddit. . #generallygothic #gothic #johndonne #donne #theapparition #spirit #metaphysicalpoets #metaphysicalpoetry #englishliterature #C16thliterature #C17thliterature #C19thliterature #C20thliterature #georgeroux #painter #artist #nationalpoetrymonth #usa #classicalart #poetry #poem #poet #piano #ghost #dead #death #frenchart #france #ghosts #gothicart https://www.instagram.com/p/BwrroBJHa2V/?igshid=1ele3abqpkbmi

[hannibal-obsessed]

Quote 18 #thesilenceofthelambs In #Hannibal's condolence note to #jackcrawford , he quotes lines from #johndonne's poem #thefever, without credit. The #deathheadhawkmoth art print is by artist #juanbosco and is available on #fineartamerica's website. #thomasharris #silenceofthelambs #bellacrawford #quote #fiction #novel https://www.instagram.com/p/BtRA1XyguVM/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=13q70jv08g3w

[mebertolini]

License my roving hands, and let them go, Before, behind, between, above, below. O my America! my new-found-land, My kingdom, safeliest when one man mann’d, My mine of precious stones, My Empirie, How blest Am I in this discovering thee! To enter in these bonds, is to be free; Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.

[musicainextenso]

Shared with Dropbox

Today I’m going to show you just how bad MIDI “recordings” are.

Here’s the first song of a cycle I will (hopefully) have written based on John Donne’s poems. The singer, portrayed here by an awful bizarre-sounding robot, is a tenor, and the poem is called The Ecstasy. The poem discusses the physical and the metaphysical aspects of romance and is written in the 2nd person, suggesting this is a type of love poem to someone. My song of this, a rather long song as it is a long poem, is in a modified rondo form with a repeating motif of A-G-D. Here is the poem’s text:

Where, like a pillow on a bed A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest The violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best. Our hands were firmly cemented With a fast balm, which thence did spring; Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string; So to'intergraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one, And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation. As 'twixt two equal armies fate Suspends uncertain victory, Our souls (which to advance their state Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me. And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay; All day, the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day. If any, so by love refin'd That he soul's language understood, And by good love were grown all mind, Within convenient distance stood, He (though he knew not which soul spake, Because both meant, both spake the same) Might thence a new concoction take And part far purer than he came. This ecstasy doth unperplex, We said, and tell us what we love; We see by this it was not sex, We see we saw not what did move; But as all several souls contain Mixture of things, they know not what, Love these mix'd souls doth mix again And makes both one, each this and that. A single violet transplant, The strength, the colour, and the size, (All which before was poor and scant) Redoubles still, and multiplies. When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls, That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls. We then, who are this new soul, know Of what we are compos'd and made, For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls. whom no change can invade. But oh alas, so long, so far, Our bodies why do we forbear? They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are The intelligences, they the spheres. We owe them thanks, because they thus Did us, to us, at first convey, Yielded their senses' force to us, Nor are dross to us, but allay. On man heaven's influence works not so, But that it first imprints the air; So soul into the soul may flow, Though it to body first repair. As our blood labors to beget Spirits, as like souls as it can, Because such fingers need to knit That subtle knot which makes us man, So must pure lovers' souls descend T' affections, and to faculties, Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great prince in prison lies. To'our bodies turn we then, that so Weak men on love reveal'd may look; Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book. And if some lover, such as we, Have heard this dialogue of one, Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

Richard B. ( @you-had-me-at-e-flat-major )