The Flea (by John Donne)

Here we come to the sexy side of poetry, wherein even vicars can beg for sex with nothing but the 17th century poetic equivelant of the "C'mooooooooon" argument.

"Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee."

This poem is a sly little devil, innit? As I said earlier, it can be distilled into a very simple and rather crass come-on; "Our bodily fluids have already been mixed inside the fleas hopping around your bed, so why not make it fun?" Cue the Marvin Gaye.

Compared to some of the other carpe diem poems I've had to read recently, this is by far my favourite. It is the best written, and the whole idea of being "more than married" to someone because a flea sucked blood from both of you has got to be the weirdest (and funniest) way to justify premarital sex I've ever heard. In particular I like the lines "Yet this enjoys before it woo/And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two ;/And this, alas ! is more than we would do" and "Cruel and sudden, hast thou since/Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?/Wherein could this flea guilty be,/Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?" They sound great, and MAN, talk about your (bizarre) guilt trip.

Actually, what I like best about this poem (and Donne's other stuff) is the way it sounds. The guy had a real knack for finding rhymes and words that don't sound awkward, as well as letting the poetry flow in a very natural and pretty-sounding way. The word "purpled" is a prime example. Go on, say it. Purpled. Doesn't it just sound cool?

Though I like this particular poem, I'll admit I'm not a big fan of carpe diem poems beyond their--unintentional in most cases--comedic value. After all, there's only so many times you can say "sleep with me while you're still young and hot" before it becomes old hat.

The Faerie Queene - Sonnet 67 (by Edmund Spenser)

For a first post, it only makes sense that I'm starting out slow - I've just one little sonnet to review today; Sonnet 67 from Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene, which flows thusly:

"Like as a huntsman after weary chase,
Seeing the game from him escaped away,
Sits down to rest him in some shady place,
With panting hounds, beguiled of their prey:
So, after long pursuit and vain assay,
When I all weary had the chase forsook,
The gentle deer returned the selfsame way,
Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.
There she, behilding me with milder look,
Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide,
Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,
And with her own good will her firmly tied.
Strange thing, me seemed, to see a beast so wild
So goodly won, with her own will beguiled."

Maybe I'm just a hopeless romantic, but I love sonnets. And Spenser's are especially squee-worthy; the subject matter of his other sonnets that we read are much cuter (75 was love lasts forever, 79 was intelligence is sexier than physical beauty), but 67 is, I think, better-written. I'm a big fan of the hunting metaphor, where the woman is a hind (doe) and the man a hunter -- it implies a relationship reminiscent of Pepe le Pew and That Unfortunate Cat, but somehow, it still manages to be sweet. I think it's the Snape/Lily connotations.

These lines, in particular, were quite touching; "There she, behilding me with milder look/Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide/Till I in hand her yet half trembling took/And with her own good will her firmly tied." I don't know what it is, but that whole part (especially the Till I in hand her yet half trembling took bit) made me go all warm inside.

...That settles it, I'm going to go write a story about a were-doe.