Whining Poetry

THE TRIPLE FOOL.
by John Donne

    I am two fools, I know, 
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where’s that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th’ earth’s inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water’s fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme’s vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when ’tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

John Donne

I am the fool.

I am he who trusts; he who goes on trusting against all common sense and experience.

You deceive me, and I trust you. You deceive me again, and once more I trust you. You deceive me yet again, and yet again I trust you.

Then you will say “He is a fool. He does not learn. His trust is tremendous”.

My trust is so pure that no one can corrupt it.

Commentary on the Tarot  Trad arr: Alan Freshwater

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About Alan

Settling into my 7th decade and still determined not to grow up too soon.
This entry was posted in Art, Autobiography, Classics, complaints rorts and rip=offs, Death, Drama, Folklore, Life, don't talk to me about life!, Poetry, Religion and Superstition and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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