I first became interested in the English Romantic poets when I was in high school. My English teacher, a Miss Chapman, was fresh out of college and read the works of Byron, Shelley and especially Keats in a very special way. To me, fifteen years young and with hormones jumping every which way, it almost sounded as if she was making love to every line she read! Whether it was Miss Chapman or the Romantics I’ll never know for sure, but I was quickly seduced by the sheer brilliance of their poetry.
In the end it was John Keats who interested me the most. Yes Lord Byron had been a dashing, handsome womaniser who had lusted after and most likely had an incestuous relationship with his cousin. Yes Percy Shelley was an idol of his time and his untimely death has still not been adequately explained. But neither of them gripped my imagination in anything like the way in which John Keats did.
I read everything I could lay my hands on about his tragic short life and the more I read, the more I marvelled at the incredible amount of poetry he wrote in six short years. Keats was able to use the twenty six letters of our alphabet in a way that took my breath away. The Eve of St. Agnes, To Autumn, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, To Sleep, Ode to a Nightingale to name a few of his works, filled my mind with images I had not imagined could be formed by the written word.
As I matured and became interested in creative writing I dreamed of writing a fictional account of his life and calling it “Bright Star.” Alas, a lady called Jane Campion beat me to it by writing a screen play of the same name in 2009. I have watched the movie three times and think it fully deserves it 83% Rotten Tomatoes rating!
Later I felt that I owed Mr Keats, if only because he had been responsible for allowing me the privilege of hearing Miss Chapman. No, what I owed him was much more than that.
In all I think he wrote about a hundred and sixty poems and sonnets. I think I have read every one except Endymion and Otho the Great. So decided that out of respect for the man I would try to correct this grave oversight. However, try as I might I could not finish reading the former.
To me this “poetic romance” of Greek mythology is probably the most boring poem I have ever not finished reading. Its writing would have likely proved a daunting task for any poet twice John Keats’ twenty two years, so I guess that the mere fact that he managed to finish it should be loudly applauded. Were it not for the opening line, in my humble opinion its only redeeming feature, it would have been still born. Keats himself panned it in the preface.
So I managed to repay most of my debt to Mr Keats who will forever remain my most
favourite Romantic poet.