It is the conflicted nature of love: that which heals supremely can hurt indescribably.
Just one verse each day.
“When the ancient Greeks realized that there is ‘something irremediably wrong in the world,’ while such a world must be judged ‘at the same time as beautiful,’ tragedy was born.”
– Robert Kaplan, The Tragic Sensibility
As I read them, I was reminded: This is dark stuff.
In 1624, an ill and languishing John Donne scribbled a poem that would make up (in part) his Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions. Though writing from his lofty theological role as Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral and composing for no less a personage than the king’s son, his words were no aristocratic treatise or fusty elaboration of Anglican doctrine. Instead, they were a raw contemplation of the meaning of life in the face of inevitable death.
No man is an island,Entire of itself.Each is a piece of the continent,A part of the main.If a clod be washed away by the sea,Europe is the less.As well as if a promontory were.As well as if a manor of thine ownOr of thine friend’s were.Each man’s death diminishes me,For I am involved in mankind.Therefore, send not to knowFor whom the bell tolls,It tolls for thee.
In 1865, a lamenting Walt Whitman penned a mournful poem. Stricken with grief over the unthinkable murder of President Abraham Lincoln, Whitman’s words embodied the conflicted mood of many: joy at the Civil War’s end; sorrow over the death of a divided nation’s father figure.
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You’ve fallen cold and dead.My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,Silence the pianos and with muffled drumBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.Let aeroplanes circle moaning overheadScribbling on the sky the message “He is Dead.”Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves …
Why must a live man count the numbers of the slain, why grieve at fortune’s wrath that fades to break once more?