Love's Deity

I LONG to talk with some old lover's ghost,
Who died before the god of love was born.
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

from Love's Deity, by John Donne

The rest is here.

The ubiquity of the Beloved

Image by vdbdc via FlickrThe Lover sees the Beloved everywhere. His journey in the morning can now be defined as From: where she used to live, To: where she will live from now on.

I was missing you on Friday, and knew I would miss you all weekend. Walking in the neighbourhood, I thought I might bump into you. But that would only solve today's problem. What would it take to cure tomorrow's ill? And the day after tomorrow?

The Lover sees the Beloved everywhere, though for him she is nowhere. For him she is always elsewhere.

Fare thee weel my best and dearest

Image via Wikipedia

 

Separation from the Beloved is a form of exile, from the one rather than the many. The Solitary Goose is still surrounded by the flock, but still its solitude is complete.

Ae Fond Kiss was written in response to the exile of the Beloved, which in that case, and in those days in general, may be assumed to be forever. It raises another question of time: the fact that it moves in only one direction:

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met - or never parted --
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

The sorrow is a direct consequence of the love. The two are inseparable. If the Beloved does not leave now, she will leave later. Or the Lover will leave her. The greatest exile is death, and every separation is a small death.

 

One fond kiss

 

Gordon from Glasgow posted Burns’ Ae Fond Kiss in January 2007, and when he was asked for a translation, came up with the goods:

Ae Fond Kiss

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae farewell, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:
Naething could resist my Nancy!
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met - or never parted --
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae farewell, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

gordon said... OK just for you.

One Fond Kiss

One fond kiss, and then we sever!
One farewell, and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I will pledge you,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, no cheerful twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around overtakes me.

I will never blame my partial fancy:
Nothing could resist my Nancy!
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved so kindly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met - or never parted -
We had never been broken-hearted.

Fare-you-well, you first and fairest!
Fare-you-well, you best and dearest!
Yours be every joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!

One fond kiss, and then we sever!
One farewell, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I will pledge you,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Ranting'n'Raving: A man's a man for a' that

Grapes 2.0: Time's wingèd chariot

Image via Wikipedia

I decided to come back over here after posting this to my main blog:

I came in from work to an empty house, and fell asleep -- bad idea -- on the couch. Woke up with a sense of melancholy, as after a crying dream. The other day you spoke about going away, and now I felt that the time was already upon us. The world stretches out in front of the young, to the far horizon. Time telescopes as you get older, and every future falls within reach. It doesn't matter how long it's going to be, in my eyes it's already here. Andrew Marvell, in his marvellous poem To His Coy Mistress, writes:

But at my back I always hear

Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near

Read the rest of it here.

Link

Update:

Sleep didn’t come, partly because I’d slept in the evening.

When I was a child I was afraid to fall asleep, because I suffered from nose-bleeds. I’d wake up in the morning with the metallic taste of money in my mouth, and one eye glued shut because of the blood that had pooled in the hollow of my pillow. Naturally, that’s a traumatic experience for a child, and even when it becomes habitual, you still know that’s the essence of your living being that’s been leaking out of you. You still have to be cleaned up by your mother. You still go around for the rest of the day with the smell and taste of your own blood. That’s something that’s normally only associated with major trauma.

Now the fear of sleep is not the fear of blood, it’s the fear of thought. Last night, as you can see, I was preoccupied with the loss of a loved one. In this case, the future loss of a loved one. My point was, future or present makes no difference: a loss once dreamed of becomes actual. At a certain stage of life all time becomes contemporaneous, and the future and present cannot be distinguished. It’s enough that a loss be possible, for it to become actual.

In the minutes and hours between lying down and sleep coming, there’s time to think about all of that. As such, it’s something to be avoided. It’s enough that things should be so, without our seeking to contemplate them as well. Knowing a thing, and thinking about it, is a compounding of the injury.

The solution would be to go to bed only when one is so exhausted that all dread night-time thoughts are impossible. I haven’t yet found the recipe for that potion. All suggestions gratefully welcomed.

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• Time's wingèd chariot

The Solitary Goose

The solitary goose does not drink or eat,
It flies about and calls, missing the flock.
No-one now remembers this one shadow,
They've lost each other in the myriad layers of cloud.
It looks into the distance: seems to see,
It's so distressed, it thinks that it can hear.
Unconsciously, the wild ducks start to call,
Cries of birds are everywhere confused.

The Solitary Goose

A poem by the Chinese poet Tu Fu (712-770), considered one of the two greatest Chinese poets ever. The goose, we’re told, represents autumn. The poem, however, is about exile. It was written as Tu Fu journeyed back to his birthplace, a journey that started in 765 and was never completed.