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The Bait -- John Donne

Guest poem submitted by David Wright:
(Poem #1002) The Bait
 Come live with me, and be my love,
 And we will some new pleasures prove
 Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
 With silken lines, and silver hooks.

 There will the river whispering run
 Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun;
 And there th'enamour'd fish will stay,
 Begging themselves they may betray.

 When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
 Each fish, which every channel hath,
 Will amorously to thee swim,
 Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

 If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
 By sun or moon, thou darken'st both,
 And if myself have leave to see,
 I need not their light, having thee.

 Let others freeze with angling reeds,
 And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
 Or treacherously poor fish beset,
 With strangling snare, or windowy net.

 Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
 The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
 Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
 Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes.

 For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
 For thou thyself art thine own bait:
 That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,
 Alas, is wiser far than I.
-- John Donne
 John Donne takes the conceit in an entirely different direction  - this
fast & loose & frisky invitation to go skinny-dipping in the river, etc., -
a much more enticing invitation than that of Marlowe's shepherd, if you ask
me. I've always thought Donne, or the early Donne anyway, is the sexiest of
poets. The juiciest of all is that poem on his mistress going to bed, the
one with the lines -

 License my roving hands, and let them go
 Before, behind, between, above, below.
 O, my America, my new found land,
 My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
 My mine of precious stones, my empery;
 How blest am I in this discovering thee!
 To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
 Then, where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
   Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee;
 As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be
 To taste whole joys.

 Mercy! 'The Bait' is pretty sexy too, all that scintillating stuff about
enamoured fish making love to her underwater - like that memorable old
Japanese erotic print/netsuke of a woman in the clasp of an octopus - is
both titillating and charmingly silly. Once again, clever Donne worships a
woman out of her petticoats, and the appeal is not subject to Raleigh's
critique, for he promises nothing more than a really fun day of loving and
playing on the bank. (Donne's too clever for the lot of them - I expect
anyone writing a response to or a parody of Donne would find himself
anatomized in one of his wonderfully scathing satires).

 The big metaphor of her as a baited hook is proverbial, but Donne seems to
think he can get the bait off that hook and get away, or else that he will
be happily caught.

David.

[thomas adds]

 "The Bait" was going to be the third poem in a series, following
Christopher Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" and Sir Walter
Raleigh's "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" on the Minstrels. But David's
excellent commentary has left with me little to add, so I'll content myself
with a few expository notes. Most of these, incidentally, are based on the
annotations provided by A. J. Smith to the Penguin edition of Donne's
complete poems.

[Notes]

 Several manuscripts describe this poem as being written to match a melody
that pre-dated Donne; sadly, no contemporary musical setting of "The Bait"
has survived. (Though do check out Minstrels Poem #565, Thomas Campion's
"Now Winter Nights Enlarge", a poem/song written around the same time as
"The Bait"; a version for lute is available at
[broken link] http://www.albany.net/~dowland/sound.html).

 "The Bait" varies Marlowe's "Passionate Shepherd" (1599) and Raleigh's
"Nymph's Reply" (1600) (see links below). In "The Compleat Angler" (1655),
Izaak Walton has a milkmaid sing Marlowe's lines, her mother sing Raleigh's
reply, and Venator gives Donne's poem as 'a copy of verses thet were made by
Doctor Donne, and made to show the world that he could make soft and smooth
verses, when he though fit and worth his labour'. It's worth keeping in mind
that Walton's parish pastor was none other than John Donne...

 "When thou wilt swim in that live bath
  Each fish, which every channel hath,
  Will amorously to thee swim"
The lady's power to attract the fish when she bathed was a common conceit in
the erotic poetry of the time; witness the following:
 "Then quickly strip thyself! Lay fear aside!
  For of this dainty prey, which thou shalt take;
  Both sea, fish, and thyself, thou glad shalt make."
        -- R. Tofte, "Laura" (1597), II, 37

 "If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
  By sun or moon, thou darken'st both,
i.e., you outshine both sun and moon in your beauty.

 "curious" - artfully made.

 "sleave-silk flies" - artificial flies made out of the threads of sleaved
(unravelled) silk.

[Minstrels Links]

 This week's theme is Love Poetry:
Poem #997, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love -- Christopher Marlowe
Poem #998, A Blade of Grass -- Brian Patten
Poem #999, Casabianca -- Elizabeth Bishop
Poem #1001, The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd -- Sir Walter Raleigh
Poem #1002, The Bait -- John Donne
 There is of course no shortage of love poetry in the Minstrels archives;
see http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/ for a full list.

 John Donne, one of my favourite poets:
Poem #330, A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
Poem #384, Song
Poem #403, A Lame Beggar
Poem #465, The Sun Rising
Poem #796, Death Be Not Proud (Holy Sonnets: X)
Poem #866, The Canonization
Poem #1002, The Bait

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd -- Sir Walter Raleigh

       
(Poem #1001) The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd
 If all the world and love were young,
 And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
 These pretty pleasures might me move
 To live with thee and be thy love.

 Time drives the flocks from field to fold
 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
 And Philomel becometh dumb;
 The rest complains of cares to come.

 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
 To wayward winter reckoning yields;
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall,

 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten--
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
 Thy coral claps and somber studs,
 All these in me no means can move
 To come to thee and be thy love.

 But could youth last and love still breed,
 Had joys no date nor age no need,
 Then these delights my mind might move
 To live with thee and be thy love.
-- Sir Walter Raleigh
It seems ironic. Sir Walter Raleigh was the romantic favourite of Queen
Elizabeth I, famed in legend for (among other things) spreading his cloak
over a puddle so that Her Majesty might not get her feet wet. Christopher
Marlowe, on the other hand, was a spy whose intrigues led him to a nasty
end, stabbed to death in a tavern brawl in one of the seamier parts of
London. And yet it's the latter who wrote "The Passionate Shepherd", a
cheerfully optimistic piece that charms and delights in its seeming naivete;
it's the former who responded with "The Nymph's Reply", a cynical rejoinder
that is nonetheless more worldly-wise, more cognizant of the wisdom of
experience and disappointment.

I'm not sure which of the two poems I like better. On balance, I think
Raleigh's.

thomas.

[Notes]

"And Philomel becometh dumb" - the name Philomel is often used in poetry to
refer to the nightingale, after the legend of Philomel:

"In Greek legend, Tereus was a king of Thrace who married Procne, daughter
of Pandion, king of Athens. Tereus seduced Procne's sister Philomela,
pretending that Procne was dead. In order to hide his guilt, he cut out
Philomela's tongue. But she revealed the crime to her sister by working the
details in embroidery. Procne sought revenge by serving up her son Itys for
Tereus' supper. On learning what Procne had done, Tereus pursued the two
sisters with an ax. But the gods took pity and changed them all into birds,
Tereus into a hoopoe (or hawk), Procne into a nightingale (or swallow), and
Philomela into a swallow (or nightingale)."
        -- EB

The themes of betrayal, faithlessness and deception in the Philomel story
jibe nicely with today's poem; they are used to similar effect in Eliot's
masterpiece "The Waste Land".

[Minstrels Links]

Poem #997, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love -- Christopher Marlowe
Poem #354, (an excerpt from) The Waste Land  -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #858, (another excerpt from) The Waste Land  -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #859, Waste Land Limericks -- Wendy Cope

Casabianca -- Felicia Hemans

Guest poem submitted by Gregory Marton:

Yesterday's poem, "Casabianca" by Elizabeth Bishop written in 1946, is
somewhat out of place without its predecessor below, written in 1829:
(Poem #1000) Casabianca
 The boy stod on the burning deck,
 Whence all but him had fled;
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck
 shone round him o'er the dead.

 Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
 As born to rule the storm;
 A creature of heroic blood,
 A proud, though child-like form.

 The flames rolled on - he would not go
 Without his father's word;
 That father, faint in death below,
 His voice no longer heard.

 He called aloud - "Say, father, say
 If yet my task is done?"
 He knew not that the chieftain lay
 Unconscious of his son.

 "Speak, father!" once again he cried,
 "If I may yet be gone!"
 And but the booming shots replied,
 And fast the flames rolled on.

 Upon his brow he felt their breath,
 And in his waving hair;
 And looked from that lone post of death
 In still, yet brave despair:

 And shouted but once more aloud,
 "My father! must I stay?"
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
 The wreathing fires made way.

 There came a burst of thunder sound -
 The boy - oh! where was he?
 Ask of the winds that far around
 With fragments strewed the sea!

 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
 That well had borne their part -
 But the noblest thing that perished there
 Was that young, faithful heart.
-- Felicia Hemans
 This was better known as "The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck", and is the
poem Bishop's boy recites in Poem #999.

 From [broken link] http://mason-west.com/ElizabethBishop/casabianca.shtml :

     Hemans's poem commemorates the death of Young Casabianca, a boy
     about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the "Orient", who
     remained at his post in the Battle of the Nile after the ship had
     taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in
     the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the
     powder. The Battle of the Nile, in which Nelson captured and
     destroyed the French fleet in Aboukir Bay, took place on August
     1, 1798.

 Hemans's "Casabianca" came to me through one of the most inspiring pieces
of text I've ever read. Alan Turing, in his famous 1950 paper "Computing
Machinery and Intelligence", describes the famous Turing Test. He asserts
that machines will someday "think" in the sense of  that word that we use
for ourselves, and was the first to describe, by his imitation game, a means
to tell whether a machine was doing so.

 In the paper Turing also describes constructing an intelligent machine by
constructing first a child machine, then training it as one would a child.
In describing why Skinnerian operant conditioning, a series of rewards for
good behavior and punishments for bad, would not be the best training
approach, Turing says:

     Roughly speaking, if the teacher has no other means of
     communicating to the pupil, the amount of information which can
     reach him does not exceed the total number of rewards and
     punishments applied.  By the time a child has learnt to repeat
     "Casabianca" he would probably feel very sore indeed, if the text
     could only be discovered by a "Twenty Questions" technique, every
     "NO" taking the form of a blow.

 At first I thought Turing had mistyped "Casablanca" but looked and found
otherwise!  Indeed the metaphor is most apt, especially in light of Bishop's
version (1946): the child machine, the only sort of boy designed not to run
or fight back, reciting in "stammering elocution" the poem until by blows he
gets it right.  The machine, the most obstinate of little boys -- it's this
boy that I as an AI grad student love, even if he'll not for some time yet
pass Turing's test or run from burning flames.  We'll get there.  :-)

Gremio.

Casabianca -- Elizabeth Bishop

Guest poem submitted by Ben Morrison,
whose birthday it is today. Happy Birthday, Ben!
(Poem #999) Casabianca
 Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
 trying to recite "The boy stood on
 the burning deck". Love's the son
        stood stammering elocution
        while the poor ship in flames went down.

 Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
 even the swimming sailors, who
 would like a schoolroom platform, too
        or an excuse to stay
        on deck. And love's the burning boy.
-- Elizabeth Bishop
This Bishop poem isn't one that typically makes it in the anthologies, but
it is perhaps my favorite, and since it is love poetry week, it's entirely
fitting.

It's so simple: four sentences all with the same noun/verb
contraction--"love's".  The image of "burning" love is a cliché, but the
build from the poor boy trying to talk to the ship and all the other sailors
and then back to the burning boy is what makes this poem work. The lens
widens from the poor boy to everything else and then, finally, back to the
boy. This is the enviable boy who gets to stay on deck and burn.

It's not pretty. It's sacrificial. It's about being powerless, not being
able to say ("trying to recite") what you are and where you are. It's not
pastoral. If you actually imagine someone burning, it's downright
horrifying, but I guess that's the point. Even when reading it, the reader
envies the boy and wishes that he/she too was on the deck and burning.

Ben.

[Minstrels Links]

Elizabeth Bishop:
Poem #639, One Art
Poem #734, In the Waiting Room

Love poetry, the week so far:
Poem #997, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love -- Christopher Marlowe
Poem #998, A Blade of Grass -- Brian Patten
Poem #999, Casabianca -- Elizabeth Bishop

A blade of grass -- Brian Patten

Guest poem submitted by Sam Dent:
(Poem #998) A blade of grass
 You ask for a poem.
 I offer you a blade of grass.
 You say it is not good enough.
 You ask for a poem.

 I say this blade of grass will do.
 It has dressed itself in frost,
 It is more immediate
 Than any image of my making.

 You say it is not a poem,
 It is a blade of grass and grass
 Is not quite good enough.
 I offer you a blade of grass.

 You are indignant.
 You say it is too easy to offer grass.
 It is absurd.
 Anyone can offer a blade of grass.

 You ask for a poem.
 And so I write you a tragedy about
 How a blade of grass
 Becomes more and more difficult to offer,

 And about how as you grow older
 A blade of grass
 Becomes more difficult to accept.
-- Brian Patten
Since you are now on the theme of love poetry, I must send you this one.  I
can't believe you have no Brian Patten yet, I hope this will encourage a few
people to track down his work.  He and Adrian Mitchell are, in my opinion,
the finest modern poets.  The beauty of this poem is in its simplicity, and
how the images seem to stay with you.

Sam.

[Minstrels Links]

Comparison to Adrian Mitchell is high praise indeed; check out the following
poems on the Minstrels website to see what I mean:
Poem #28, To Whom It May Concern
Poem #95, Nostalgia - Now Threepence Off
Poem #211, The Oxford Hysteria of English Poetry
Poem #337, Jimmy Giuffre Plays 'The Easy Way'
Poem #397, Ancestors
Poem #623, Ten Ways to Avoid Lending Your Wheelbarrow to Anybody
Poem #810, Beatrix is Three
Poem #894, Watch Your Step - I'm Drenched