The Calm by John Donne

View this email on a browser Forward to a friend July 30, 2016   The Calm   John Donne

Our storm is past, and that storm’s tyrannous rage, A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth ’suage. The fable is inverted, and far more A block afflicts, now, than a stork before. Storms chafe, and soon wear out themselves, or us; In calms, Heaven laughs to see us languish thus. As steady’as I can wish that my thoughts were, Smooth as thy mistress’ glass, or what shines there, The sea is now; and, as the isles which we Seek, when we can move, our ships rooted be. As water did in storms, now pitch runs out; As lead, when a fir’d church becomes one spout. And all our beauty, and our trim, decays, Like courts removing, or like ended plays. The fighting-place now seamen’s rags supply; And all the tackling is a frippery. No use of lanthorns; and in one place lay Feathers and dust, to-day and yesterday. Earth’s hollownesses, which the world's lungs are, Have no more wind than the upper vault of air. We can nor lost friends nor sought foes recover, But meteor-like, save that we move not, hover. Only the calenture together draws Dear friends, which meet dead in great fishes’ jaws; And on the hatches, as on altars, lies Each one, his own priest, and own sacrifice. Who live, that miracle do multiply, Where walkers in hot ovens do not die. If in despite of these we swim, that hath No more refreshing than our brimstone bath; But from the sea into the ship we turn, Like parboil’d wretches, on the coals to burn. Like Bajazet encag’d, the shepherds’ scoff, Or like slack-sinew’d Samson, his hair off, Languish our ships. Now as a myriad Of ants durst th’ emperor’s lov’d snake invade, The crawling gallies, sea-gaols, finny chips, Might brave our pinnaces, now bed-rid ships. Whether a rotten state, and hope of gain, Or to disuse me from the queasy pain Of being belov’d and loving, or the thirst Of honour, or fair death, out-push’d me first, I lose my end; for here, as well as I, A desperate may live, and a coward die. Stag, dog, and all which from or towards flies, Is paid with life or prey, or doing dies. Fate grudges us all, and doth subtly lay A scourge, ’gainst which we all forget to pray. He that at sea prays for more wind, as well Under the poles may beg cold, heat in hell. What are we then? How little more, alas, Is man now, than before he was? He was Nothing; for us, we are for nothing fit; Chance, or ourselves, still disproportion it. We have no power, no will, no sense; I lie, I should not then thus feel this misery.            This poem is in the public domain. About This Poem   “The Calm” was published in The Poems of John Donne (Lawrence and Bullen, 1896).   John Donne was born on January 22, 1572, in London. He is the author of Satires (1593) and Songs and Sonnets (1601). Donne died on March 31, 1631. Poetry by Donne   The Complete English Poems (Penguin Classics, 1977)   "Love (III)" by George Herbert "The Mower’s Song" by Andrew Marvell "Shadows in the Water" by Thomas Traherne Poem-a-Day   Launched during National Poetry Month in 2006, Poem-a-Day features new and previously unpublished poems by contemporary poets on weekdays and classic poems on weekends. Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit Poets.org.   You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click here.   © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038