|WHEN I am dead, and doctors know not why,
And my friends’ curiosity
Will have me cut up to survey each part,
When they shall find your picture in my heart,
You think a sudden damp of love
Will thorough all their senses move,
And work on them as me, and so prefer
Your murder to the name of massacre,Poor victories ; but if you dare be brave,
And pleasure in your conquest have,
First kill th’ enormous giant, your Disdain ;
And let th’ enchantress Honour, next be slain ;
And like a Goth and Vandal rise,
Deface records and histories
Of your own arts and triumphs over men,
And without such advantage kill me then,For I could muster up, as well as you,
My giants, and my witches too,
Which are vast Constancy and Secretness ;
But these I neither look for nor profess ;
Kill me as woman, let me die
As a mere man ; do you but try
Your passive valour, and you shall find then,
Naked you have odds enough of any man.-John Donne
I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where’s that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th’ earth’s inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water’s fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme’s vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.
But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when ’tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.
– John Donne
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“It is with and without one, that the other finds the sum. The two unbeknownst to me, rings truer in the dirge; its gradient death hidden within the blea. Beneath the tread to lot, beneath the tread to none…it is with and without the one, eternity naught in mediation to none.”
It is in the closest thoughts to the one, that one reaches a true uncovering. To meditate in and under the life…is to pass through that which holds still. It is in these peculiar moments in the between, where the recognizance of existence yields the verboten pome. The answer which leads to a question, a posit held in place. A disregard for that which one stands in front of and understands from behind.
To meditate is to see that what applies to the sum, applies to none. Yet, it is through the sum of understanding, that which applies to none abounded becomes the sum. To meditate is to catch a momentary motion, above and through the apex that eternally sums the mount.
Whom is he which mediates in the path that enters to nothingness. Whom is he which meditates, on the alive and the sum which breathes sustenance to form. Whom is he which mediates, on the path of narrowest fit. He whom grasps the hand of life, he whom grasps no nearer to the hand of passing…the bridge of meditation, the nexus evermore.
No man in exception, understands within and without. He meditates in that which breathes life-force, to reach from point to point. And in this in-between, the straight and narrow, he finds that which may escape him in this life. Only, then do his thoughts become a mediation and the life-breath yields its force.
This be the life-breath, the meditations of John Donne…
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