Mail from the Borderlands: Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises?


Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?


No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man

is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;

if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe

is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as

well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine

owne were; any mans death diminishes me,

because I am involved in Mankinde;………


Devotions upon Emergent Occasions


John Donne

Truthful Hyperbole: A Progression


Truthful Hyperbole

Leads to Calm Chaos,



Proclaiming a script that

Reveals  Clarifying Disorder.


In the end,  edges resemble facts

That have been ground up

In the Rumour Mill.

Only Cognitive Dissonance remains,

Echoing in the corners.



It is all for the Best –

Tears brush pages,

leaving sad comments

that stain the memory.

To a Fair lady Amongst Flowers



To a Fair Lady, Playing With a Snake

Strange! that such horror and such grace
Should dwell together in one place;
A fury’s arm, an angel’s face!

’Tis innocence and youth which makes
In Chloris’ fancy such mistakes
To start at love, and play with snakes.

By this and by her coldness barr’d,
Her servants have a task too hard:
The tyrant has a double guard!

Thrice happy snake! that in her sleeve
May boldly creep; we dare not give
Our thoughts so unconfin’d a leave.

Contented in that nest of snow
He lies, as he his bliss did know
And ’to the wood no more would go.

Take heed, fair Eve! you do not make
Another tempter of the Snake:
A marble one so warm’d would speak.

Edmund Waller, 1606-1687

Digital image created using source image of  Ophelia ( 1889 oil painting by John William Waterhouse  ).

I’ve Been Loving You Too Long


Original Photo shows Japanese writer Takeshi Kanno with his wife, sculptor Gertrude Farquharson Boyle (1876-1937).

(Source: Flickr Commons project, 2011)

But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long preserv’d virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust.

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none I think do there embrace.

To his Coy Mistress

by Andrew Marvell