Brice Maiurro/John Donne on bugs‏

by richibi

who says poetry isn’t supposed to be delightful,
poetry is delightful, exhilarating, inspirational,
the good stuff is 
I couldn’t resist sending again some utterly
ingenious Brice Maiurro, an absolute wunderkind
in my estimation, consistently artful and unfailingly
entertaining, topical, terse and dependably
insightful ever 
John Donne seemed an obvious comparison to me
Brice Maiurro sees no reason not to swat the fly
apart from their equally existential, and essentially
blameless each, journey
John Donne is after the girl, the fly is the conjunction
of their blood, “suck’d” from each, and therefore
sacred, a “marriage temple”, he calls it, though she
remains apparently unimpressed
literary history however was, and is, and I, for at least
one, had never forgotten it, him  
nor probably them
thanks Brice, thanks John   


as i watched
this fly
land on the beer
on my dresser
he clasped his hands

this fly
prays more than
i do


he swarms
around my head
and near my ears
as my blood boils
and i think about

he just wants

he just wants
to be seen
and heard
and loved


how come
i never
encounter a fly
when other people
are around?


this fly moves
in a severely unorthodox way
and writing through the
stale air

either he governs
his own motion
or something else does

he lands
just to take off again
he goes
to the same place

there is a method
to his madness
i don’t know what

what keeps him
doing the
same quaint thing
and again?


if i swat at him
i will never kill him
i have to watch him

i have to understand him
at least a little
if i want to absolve him
of his horrid fly life

(is it horrid?
i can’t fly.)

he grows to trust me
it feels like:

he lands on my bed
then the fabric
of my pajamas
then my knee
then my bare chest


after i killed him
i lifted my pillow
where i found him dead

i picked up his lifeless corpse
and his legs moved
i euthanized him
from the suffering i began
and set him outside
of my window

i’m not cut out for this

life is so big
and i’m flying desperately
in chaotic patterns
landing in the same spot
over and again

              Brice Maiurro  
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is ;
It suck’d me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead ;
     Yet this enjoys before it woo,
     And pamper’d swells with one blood made of two ;
     And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we’re met,
And cloister’d in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
     Let not to that self-murder added be,
     And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck’d from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say’st that thou
Find’st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
    ‘Tis true ; then learn how false fears be ;
    Just so much honour, when thou yield’st to me,
    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee 

                                                John Donne  (1572-1631)