Undone by Donne

This is the third poem in a trilogy that  I have dedicated to the poet John Donne.

Surely we have found through the ages
that love comes in different packages?
That corners of souls yearn
and diverse passions burn?

Attracted to a humorous mind,
but to the body—not inclined.
Connected to the intellect,
but in the face—some defect.

A lithe body and attractive face,
but intelligence with a vacant space.
Fine features with a certain fascination,
but a vacuous mentality with no conversation.

And this one makes me laugh and sing,
and pulls that certain light heartstring.
And that one talks at depth with me,
but there is no sexuality.

We are programmed for the physical mould
and eyes feed brain—which is then told.
Because no matter how hard we try
we must obey the biology.

The messenger of chemical change
the brain fever that will arrange.
The blood bulletin dispatched to the mind
that makes sane mortals strangely blind.

This alchemy that they call love—
an emotional tyrant it would prove.
A ruthless kind of ownership.
A dictator’s doctrine from the lips.

Donne is body and soul authority—
through his poems he lectured me.
His love—a person who would thwart—
and yet give rise to so many a thought.

Understand the unrequited love
that many poets speak to you of.
Let Donne be your lesson teacher
and your soul supervisor.

The poignancy of losing and loss
in this study of his written pathos.
Love’s tyranny in revision.
Listen to his supervision.

Should we pity the lonely love plagued Donne
or be glad his creative words had begun?
He has given away every grand feeling—
his tormented soul is ranting and reeling.

Truth is—she cannot be made to love him.
A curse that made love’s energy dim.
He sounds so very depressed and despondent
as he becomes love’s great correspondent.

Love can be so fraudulent
and not a gift that’s heaven sent.
Causing self-indulgent pain
when it is ignored again.

The love that had disparity
did force this mind insanity.
And he had only loved and adored,
but she was merely indifferent and bored.

And so, dear Donne, don’t destroy yourself—
another’s portrait is on her shelf.
Reciprocal love is not yours;
he has a face meant for applause.

Saved, not by a change in his love’s attitude,
but by his deep poems which avoid platitude,
and a hope that somewhere else out there—
is another—who has some love to share !