air and angels
Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is
Love must not be, but take a body too…
I remember the moment I discovered Donne. Death Be Not Proud. I was twelve years old. Sitting in the garden. He was my first metaphysical poet. I came upon Chapman when I came upon Keats, but I was never jealous over George.
You know that feeling you get when you’re young and impossibly naive…when you think you’ve come upon something few have ever come upon before?
That’s how I felt about John Donne. Possessive. Everyone knew Shakespeare. But Donne was mine.
Flynn said something recently about a criticism piece and how it always reminds her why she loves what she loves.
I think that’s what Donne did for me. He made me realize how much I love what I love.
I’ve loved others more. But never quite the same.
