A reading of Donne's poem which compares the blood a flea takes from his lady friend with the blood of her virginity that he wishes to take.
5 years ago
The Flea - A poem by John Donne. About the poem - 'The Flea' is a complex yet almost hilarious conversation between two lovers, where the young man uses his exceptionally persuasive skills to coax his lady love to sleep with him. Throughout the poem Donne uses a skilled combination of tone, suggestive words and double meaning, to present an argument which is so clever that it might actually lead to the speaker having his way. About the poet - John Donne (19 June 1572 -- 31 March 1631) was an English poet, satirist, lawyer. He is considered as the representative of the metaphysical poets. His works are noted for their strong, sensual style and include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness of metaphor, especially compared to that of his contemporaries. For more videos log onto http://www.youtube.com/pearlsofwisdom Also find us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pearlsofwisdomchannel Subscribe & Stay Tuned - http://www.youtube.com/subscription_center?add_user=pearlsofwisdom
3 years ago
This is a video I made for my english glass where we were told to make a presentation to class about the poet John Donne. Hope you like it. This contains extracts from John Donne Biography Publisher A&E Television Networks http://www.biography.com/people/john-donne-9277090#profile
4 years ago
Much in the spirit of John Donne's "The Flea" I have taken two videos and co-mingled them into one video. The voice is from MichellesMovieMayhem• found at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdPvaVRj2J4 and the images come from poetryhelp101 found at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MeJQSuv-_iA. This video was created to help my students.
7 years ago
The alternative title "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning" is sometimes used. The picture of compasses is from SciencePhoto: http://www.sciencephoto.com/media/409760/enlarge As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say The breath goes now, 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 Absence, because it doth remove Those things which elemented it. But we by a love so much refined That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assur'd 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 fixed 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.
10 years ago
A reading of Donne's poem rejecting criticism of his love and saying that it is a holy state.
8 years ago
I hope to die peacefully in my sleep with a smile on my face, like my grandfather did, not terrified and screaming like his passengers. Last night, in bed, my wife told me she had bought a pair of gardening shears. I replied that we already had a pair of gardening shears. She explained that these shears were of such a wonderful design and of such beauty that I could not fail to be impressed when I saw them. I said that I didn't want to see them, that her description was enough together with the knowledge that there was such a wonderful pair of garden shears that gave her such pleasure: and henceforth I would bask in the glow of ownership without ever once seeing these shears; it would become for me a religious belief, cool and Zen. (I don't like gardening) When a neophyte asked the master "What is the meaning and purpose of life" , the master replied, "When I was in Hwan Hung Lo I had a robe made that weighed Seven Renmimbi." Now that leads me to explain to you what a woman means by "romantic." She usually means a gift or a gesture made with regard for her needs and desires. This is good stuff guys, so prick up your ears. So, before scattering rose petals, buying flowers or a large box of chocolates, consider first whether she really wants to spend the evening sweeping up the rose petals, whether she has shown any interest in flowers and, if so, which particular ones - and, if she is watching her figure, whether a box of chocolates is exactly what she doesn't want. Despite what you've heard, a frying pan can be a romantic gift. The circumstances would be that you remembered her saying last week that she needed a new frying pan. However it is not a good idea to gift wrap it. In fact it is not a good idea to say that it is a gift. What you say is, " I was passing that cook shop in the High Street, and remembered that you needed one of these..." It must be a superb frying pan, not one that fails as the-frying-pan-of-her-dreams. Frying pans are as romantic as garden shears. This is a very romantic gesture. It might even get you laid. When I ask my wife what was the most romantic thing I ever did , without hesitation she replied "Watson." It happened that one year for Christmas I gave my wife a little book called "How to Care for Your Persian Kitting". Excitedly she went downstairs expecting to find a Persian Kitting. Then I explained that this was about Mental Ownership. The book was to help her visualise what it would be like if I ever sanctioned ownership of a Persian Kitting. It was The Next Best Thing. I could see that the PLW (Plucky Little Woman) was discomfited, but she gulped and carried on bravely. My philosophy with regard to kittings was expressed in the words, No Way, No How. No furry vermin. No litter trays. No scratched furniture. I maintained this philosophy for a year. I still hold it inwardly, but I never mention that. I understand, being wise, that I am not the only person in the marriage and that my wishes must occasionally not prevail. Imagine, then, the PLW's surprise and delight when the following year I appeared with a real live chocolate Persian kitting whom I introduced as Watson. Watson turned out to be even worse than what I had resigned myself to: I had steeled myself for the experience of malodorous litter trays and the ruin of all things scratchable. Watson was educationally subnormal, even for an inbred kitting he hadn't got any grain of sense whatever. He couldn't grasp elementary concepts. He would make attempt after attempt to get into an armchair by leaping over the arm and failing time after time instead of walking around the front and jumping on to the seat cushion. He would interpose himself between me and whatever I was doing at the time. His favourite hobby was picking the keycaps off my keyboard one by one with his claws. The horror was appalling - but it was worth it. As a romantic gesture, Watson can't be beaten. Two monks were arguing about the temple flag waving in the wind. One said, "The flag moves." The other said, "The wind moves." They argued back and forth but could not agree. Hui-neng, the old patriarch, said: "Gentlemen! It is not the flag that moves. It is not the wind that moves. It is your mind that moves." Then one monk said to the other, "For idiotic remarks, that can't be beaten. He must be the top cat around here. Is he called Watson?" I only had to change one line of this famous story to correct its inherent error - did you notice which one? I'm sorry I screwed up the video format. You will forgive me when I tell you that I had switched to PAL to make a video for a bloke who had imported my Ferrari into Australia. One of my Ferraris. Now honesty forces me to tell you that there were only two of them. Anyhow, I forgot to switch back. The Dead Christ was by Gregorio Ernandez Death and the Maiden, 1518, was by Hans Baldung Grien
4 years ago
Click to subscribe - - - - http://goo.gl/V0wpjW No Man Is An Island by John Donne (used as the epigraph in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway) No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were: Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
7 years ago
I was given a book for Christmas: "Postmodern American Poetry" - a Norton Anthology. In fact, I had asked for it because my daughters say they never know what to get for me. I was hoping to find something I could read aloud. So far I haven't found a single poem - but I drew some tentative conclusions. All poetry, before the 20th century and the postmodern era, depended on sound. Rhyme, metre, alliteration, onomatopoeia and all those other things that Ezra Pound collectively called "melopoeia" were essential. Poetry had to be audible. Even the classic haiku was 17 syllables, supposed to be all that could be said in one breath, defining a single thought or image. Poetry used to be an audible artform. This also made it the only truly portable artform: you can own the original Ode to a Nightingale - if you are willing to commit it to memory. Postmodern poetry is more a visual artform. What matters in this postmodern period is how the words look on the printed page. That now seems to matter more than how they sound when read aloud. E E Cummings was an innovator of this trend, though he didn't entirely abandon melopoeia for typography. Many of his poems can be read aloud - but some are distinctly typographical art. Poetry - or any artform - is like a science, in that it depends on what went before. Once every nuance has been wrung from a technique then it's necessary to find a way out of its confines - to throw off the chains. The hallmark of true genius is technical innovation. The rules are now so relaxed that the postmodern poet has no craft to learn. It has been observed that "any fool can write vers libre" and chop it into lines so that it resembles poetry on the printed page. But, because there is no melopoeia, there is little point in reading it aloud. There may be a clue in what George Bernard Shaw said, "England and America are two countries divided by a common language." The dominant voice of America is the voice of the salesman or the evangelist. The everyday speech of Americans is more pitched, more assetive, more emphatic. Americans are taught to read poetry with emphasis, to drive home the "message". One problem is that you can't have both emphasis and metre: emphasis defeats metre. Shakespeare's sonnets aren't what Shakespeare intended if they are read with no regard for the tune, like this: "SHALL I compare THEE to a SUMMER'S DAY? THOU art MORE lovely and MORE temperate..." It is important to know now the stresses make an iambic pentameter. Some change is permissible, but not so much that the underlying form is lost: "Shall I comPARE thee TO a SUMMer's DAY? Thou ART more LOVEly AND more TEMperATE..." It's meditation on a theme, not a sales pitch, not this week's unmissable special offer. Yet this manner of reading seems to be what is approved by American educationalists. Perhaps that is why melopoeia is non-existent in most Postmodern American poetry. This poem by John Donne is the voice of a sophisticated, intelligent man talking to his mistress. They have just awakened in the morning in their little room. Her head is on the pillow next to his, and so close that he can see his face reflected in her eyes. Here's David Mason reading it for Poetry Out Loud. David Mason has criticised the way I read, so I chose his reading to represent the American style - and I accept that most Americans prefer poetry read this way. They want emphasis: to them it seems like I'm not trying hard enough. http://poetryoutloud.org/poems-and-performance/listen-to-poetry "Lovers" is Valencia Street Art executed in coloured chalks. The last picture is a Tarot Card - the Lovers.