Anne Atkins Again

I rarely hear Radio 4's Thought for the day these days but I caught it the other morning (May 19) and it was good old Anne Atkins. Masterful.

A crime full of contradictions. Masquerading as sexual, but prompted by domination not desire. Commonly committed against women by armies, but only by those which have proved themselves victorious over men. An act of love signifying adoration, protection and self-sacrifice; inverted by violence into hatred, destruction and self-satiation.

Why is it seen to be excusing this vicious assault, if a policeman advises women how to avoid being victims? Would pragmatism undermine justice, if perpetrators were offered an incentive for sparing the survivors proof in court which some report as almost worse than the offence? And can men ever empathise with a strong woman choosing a stronger man, for a very primitive, unconscious reason: he can then protect her (and her children) against other men.

A friend shocked me deeply with his rare honesty. Rape, he said, surely isn’t very different from sex, is it? Just more so. In the years since, I’ve tried to understand his comment. And perhaps - forgive me - from a man’s point of view, considering what his body experiences, this contains some truth. At it’s most basic, it’s the same physical act.

But for a woman, for her body, “rape is always rape”: an horrific, terrifying, hideously intimate intrusive attack only short of murder or extreme torture. Couldn’t be more different from lovemaking, or being made love to if you will, which can be experienced as the most sublime recognition of her - our, my - worth and value. With my body I thee worship, he said the day he vowed to love me.

The only difference, in law, is her wish. Small wonder it can be difficult to prove.

A common objection to the Christian Gospel goes something like this.

Why couldn’t God make us good? Why don’t we all go to Heaven, whether we want to or not? Why doesn’t He just love us, regardless of our response?

Why the crucial emphasis on free will?

Over and over again, God presents Himself as lover - ours, mine, yours. How can I give you up, He asks in the book of Hosea, the prophet whose wife was as unfaithful as God’s adulterous people: my heart is charged within me; I cared for you, I loved you - just as Hosea loves his chastened wife. Husbands love your wives, St Paul writes, as Jesus loved us and gave up His life for us.

A suitor, a husband, a lover. Not an aggressor, an assailant, a rapist.

Why? Because enforced love isn’t love but violation. Whereas voluntary joyous submission even to someone much stronger, isn’t submission so much as liberation.

Take me to you, imprison me, for I, John Donne writes to God,

Except you enthral me, never shall be free,

Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Short Poem 16

And so back to the good old metaphysicals. The very title of this poem by George Herbert (1593-1663) is full of mischief - he was an Anglican vicar sometimes full of choler (anger). Born in Wales to an artistic and wealthy family, he received a good education. At Trinity College, Cambridge, he excelled in languages and music. He intended to be a priest but he attracted the attention of James I and served in Parliament two years. After James' death, at the urging of a friend he renewed his interest in the ministry and in 1630 gave up his secular ambitions and took Anglican orders, spending the rest of his life as rector of St Andrew Bemerton, near Salisbury. He was a diligent high church pastor. Throughout his life he wrote religious poems characterised by precise language, metrical versatility and ingenious use of imagery or conceits as favoured by the metaphysical school.

The Collar

I Struck the board, and cry’d, No more.
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the rode,
Loose as the winde, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me bloud, and not restore
What I have lost with cordiall fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did drie it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the yeare onely lost to me?
Have I no bayes to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not. Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which pettie thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy deaths head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, Childe:
And I reply’d, My Lord.

Short Poem 02

Unknown author; hochgeladen von ANKAWÜ,
Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

This poem is by Francis Quarles (1592-1644) a prolific poet and father (he had 18 children). See here and here. This is not a particularly well known poem but it was anthologised in a Penguin book of metaphysical poetry many years ago and that is where I found it. I like the way it reflects on the biblical narrative and plays with the ideas that arise in that charming Gospel story. Its brevity is also admirable.

Zaccheus

Methinks I see with what a busy haste
Zaccheus climbed the tree. But, O how fast
How full of speed, canst thou imagine (when
Our Saviour called) he powdered down again!
He ne’er made trial if the boughs were sound,
Or rotten; nor how far 'twas to the ground.
There was no danger feared. At such a call
He’ll venture nothing, that dare fear a fall.
Needs must he down, by such a spirit driven;
Nor could he fall, unless he fell to Heaven.
Down came Zaccheus, ravished from the tree;
Bird that was shot, ne’er dropped so quick as he.