Can Dunn run with Donne?
In this contest—the penultimate First Round game as we round out things in the East—we have two monumental poems expounding iconic, monumental opposite beliefs and doing it so well that, at the end—and we find this so beautiful—both poems seem to be saying the same thing, if not quite agreeing with each other, then adding to each other in such a way, that ultimately, there is agreement.
But what a delicious war this is!
The 17th century Donne, devotional supplicant to love’s singularity.
The 21st century Dunn, with a shrug, putting on some music.
Yet, 21st century Dunn, in his way, is devotional, too, for isn’t the thing he obviously wants, ”you and me…here and now from here on in,” the same thing 17th century Donne not only wants, but gives us?
And if we disagree with Donne, there is nothing more for us, if we agree with Dunn—except less possibility for poetry—for Dunn, like all moderns, essentially surrenders to “random things out there,” that have no truck with poetry, for if we believe the moderns, whatever is “out there” is indifferent to us.
Further, the sort of thinking we do in poetry about what is “out there” has no reason to take place if indifference is truly the state of things. And, further, if description of these “things out there” is sought, poetry, in terms of pure descriptiveness, falls short of the visual arts.
In spite of Dunn’s agnostic stance, the whole power of Dunn’s poem resides in the fact that he skillfully entertains what Donne embraces—the modern begs at the ancient, devotional table; the vignette of coming darkness at the end of Dunn’s poem is dependent on Dunn’s philosophical musing in the beginning, whether or not that musing is definitive, or not.
The poem—if we take ‘the poem’ seriously, depends upon an assumed philosophy, as well as an aesthetic (painterly, musical, sculptural, architectural) reality; the latter will usually crash if the former is not in place; mere babbling or scribbling is always possible, and there are even modern philosophies that support scribbling and babbling, but Donne is no special case: poetry is actually more beholden to Donne, than Donne to poetry; Dunn is real only in relation to Donne; all poetry is. The world (see Donne) is far smaller than we think.
If the avant-garde doesn’t get this…well, that’s precisely why they need to puff themselves up with terminology such as: avant-garde.
We maintain that poetry is always poetry.
Dunn is speaking Donne’s language; the moderns, if they live at all, live in the past—all is one; Donne is right.
Donne’s “twas but a dream of thee” anticipates Dunn’s desire, if not his philosophy—of which he has none, save as it exists in Donne.
THE GOOD MORROW—John Donne
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
HERE AND NOW—Stephen Dunn
There are words
I’ve had to save myself from,
like My Lord and Blessed Mother,
words I said and never meant,
though I admit a part of me misses
the ornamental stateliness
of High Mass, that smell
I’ve had to save myself from,
like My Lord and Blessed Mother,
words I said and never meant,
though I admit a part of me misses
the ornamental stateliness
of High Mass, that smell
of incense. Heaven did exist,
I discovered, but was reciprocal
and momentary, like lust
felt at exactly the same time—
two mortals, say, on a resilient bed,
making a small case for themselves.
I discovered, but was reciprocal
and momentary, like lust
felt at exactly the same time—
two mortals, say, on a resilient bed,
making a small case for themselves.
You and I became the words
I’d say before I’d lay me down to sleep,
and again when I’d wake—wishful
words, no belief in them yet.
It seemed you’d been put on earth
to distract me
from what was doctrinal and dry.
Electricity may start things,
but if they’re to last
I’ve come to understand
a steady, low-voltage hum
I’d say before I’d lay me down to sleep,
and again when I’d wake—wishful
words, no belief in them yet.
It seemed you’d been put on earth
to distract me
from what was doctrinal and dry.
Electricity may start things,
but if they’re to last
I’ve come to understand
a steady, low-voltage hum
of affection
must be arrived at. How else to offset
the occasional slide
into neglect and ill temper?
I learned, in time, to let heaven
go its mythy way, to never again
must be arrived at. How else to offset
the occasional slide
into neglect and ill temper?
I learned, in time, to let heaven
go its mythy way, to never again
be a supplicant
of any single idea. For you and me
it’s here and now from here on in.
Nothing can save us, nor do we wish
to be saved.
of any single idea. For you and me
it’s here and now from here on in.
Nothing can save us, nor do we wish
to be saved.
Let night come
with its austere grandeur,
ancient superstitions and fears.
It can do us no harm.
We’ll put some music on,
open the curtains, let things darken
as they will.
with its austere grandeur,
ancient superstitions and fears.
It can do us no harm.
We’ll put some music on,
open the curtains, let things darken
as they will.
The “home crowd,” the “present,” clamors for the living poet, but John Donne defeats Stephen Dunn, 90-82
