I recently discovered that two intelligent, well-educated adult acquaintances of mine (both with doctorates), believed that “No Man is an Island” is a poem by John Donne.
Shocked, I googled NO MAN IS AN ISLAND DONNE. Six of the first ten website links, starting with allpoetry.com, and including the tenth, Mensa for Kids, displayed and discussed this “poem” by "John Donne."
NO MAN IS AN ISLAND
No man is an island,
Entire of itself;
Every man 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 thy friend's
Or of thine own were.
Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
That is not a poem by John Donne. It is an anonymous simple-minded versification of a paragraph in a work of prose by Donne: Meditation XVII, from his book “Devotions” ("Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, and severall steps in my Sicknes", 1624). The book is a series of twenty-three Meditations, each accompanied by an Expostulation and Prayer.
In 1621, Donne was appointed Dean of St. Paul’s by King James I.
In those days, on Sunday mornings Londoners would go to hear sermons by fashionable preachers (Donne was one) for very much the same reason that a similar agglomeration of people today go to classical music concerts—in hopes of hearing a virtuosic and uplifting performance.
Donne’s ”Devotions” are written in the same spirit as his sermons. (Donne’s sermons have been collected into fourteen volumes by The Oxford University Press. Numerous one-volume collections also are available.) The Meditations in Donne’s “Devotions” are not personal meditations, like Marcus Aurelius’; their intent is to convey to readers various aspects of Christian faith.
Here is the magnificent work of prose from which those namby-pamby verses found everywhere on the web were abstracted.
MEDITATION XVII
Perchance he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill as that he knows not it tolls for him. And perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does, belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that head which is my head too, and ingraffed into that body, whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me; all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again, for that library where every book shall lie open to one another; as therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come; so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.
There was a contention as far as a suit (in which, piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled) which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell, that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours, by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him, that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute, that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. 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 island, entire of itself; every man 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 thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbors. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did; for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath afflicion enough, that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current moneys, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell that tells me of his affliction, digs out, and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger, I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.
The poetry of John Donne is something else entirely. With
striking metaphors, vibrant language, wit and intelligence, in poems
that make many of Shakespeare’s sonnets look pallid, Donne’s poetry–his secular poetry, at least–apotheosizes carnal love (otherwise known
as “sex”).
Donne was Dean of St. Paul’s, yes; but Donne also was the
Bard of Eros.
I’ve learned to take most of the horrors of this heart of darkness, the 21st century, in stride. If viewed from the right angle, you can find enough comedy in them to offset your exasperation. But some things...
Maybe it’s just me–you know what? I think it is just me– nevertheless, I am shocked that there are educated people, “well-read” middle-brows like myself, who consider themselves and are considered by others more-or-less conversant with Western Culture and English literature, who believe that the great metaphysical poet, John Donne, could have written this insipid piece of free verse:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself; etc. etc.
Even more shocking is realizing that they lack the rudimentary familiarity with English poetry and the changes it has gone through since Chaucer to be able to know right off the bat that a poem in free verse, without rhyme or a consistent metrical pattern, could not have come from the pen of any English poet of the 17th century.
Here are two poems by Donne. I hope they will make you smile with pleasure, and smile especially broadly if this is your first time reading them.
WOMAN'S CONSTANCY
Now thou has loved me one whole day,
Tomorrow when you leav’st, what wilt thou say?
Wilt thou then antedate some new-made vow?
Or say that now
We are not just those persons which we were?
Or, that oaths made in reverential fear
Of Love, and his wrath, any may forswear?
Or, as true deaths true marriages untie,
So lovers’ contracts, images of those,
Bind but till sleep, death’s image, them unloose?
Or, your own end to justify,
For having purposed change and falsehood, you
Can have no way but falsehood to be true?
Vain lunatic, against these ‘scapes I could
Dispute and conquer, if I would,
Which I abstain to do,
For by tomorrow, I may think so too.
ELEGY XX: TO HIS MISTRESS GOING TO BED
Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
Until I labor, I in labor lie.
The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
Is tired with standing though he never fight.
Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
But a far fairer world encompassing.
Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
That th' eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that now it is bed time.
Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
Your gown, going off, such beauteous state reveals,
As when from flowery meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with that wiry coronet and show
The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:
Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes, heaven's angels used to be
Received by men; thou, Angel, bring'st with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know
By this these angels from an evil sprite:
Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below.
O my America! my new-found-land,
My kingdom, safest when with one man manned,
My mine of precious stones, my empery,
How blest am I in this discovering of 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. Gems which you women use
Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,
That when a fools' eye lighteth on a gem,
His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
For lay-men, are all women thus arrayed;
Themselves are mystic books, which only we
(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
Must see revealed. Then, since that I may know,
As liberally as to a midwife, show
Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
There is no penance due to innocence.
To teach thee, I am naked first; why than,
What needst thou have more covering than a man?