Donne's poetry is at once highly sensuous (often highly sensual), uncompromisingly intellectual, and startlingly per- sonal. By the use of metaphor, sometimes complex, sometimes brutally direct, Donne merges sense and intellect in a manner to which our own taste seems keenly receptive. At his worst his figures of speech are the ingenious conceits that annoyed the forthright Dr. Johnson [59]. At his best they seem identical with the thought itself.
His love poetry bypasses not only ali the Elizabethan con- ventions, but ali the standard sentiments that had been the sta- ple of erotic verse up to his day. "For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love." A man who begins a poem that way is imitating no one. He is not writing exercises. He is a real man speaking, and his voice is in the room. Donne can be shocking, outrageous, tender, learned, colloquial, fantastic, passionate, reverent, despairing; and sometimes he is several of these in a single love poem. It is his awareness of the complexity of emo- tion that recommends him to our unsimple time. And what is true of his love poetry is also true of his devotional verse, which often seems to have an erotic tinge: It is the work of the whole man, including the physical man. Two often-quoted lines condense a great deal of John Donne:
Love's mysteries in souls do grow,
But yet the body is his book.
We may, very roughly, liken Donne's poetry to El Greco's painting. As El Greco distorts line, so Donne distorts language, not out of any lust for experiment, but to achieve calculated effects of emphasis, intensity, and directness obtainable in no other way. Just as El Greco's colors at first seem harsh and unnatural, so Donne's rhythms are broken, rough, the agitated reflection of emotions themselves broken and rough. The spiri- tual pain and tension that we feel in El Greco we feel also in Donne. His faith was not serene; it was shadowed with anxi- eties, perplexities, contradictions that seem to anticipate the climate of our own sorely beset time.
Donne produced much writing of interest mainly to the scholar. For the beginning reader, who may be familiar with only a few anthology pieces, I might suggest: the
C.F.
41
ANONYMOUS
published 1618
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