John Keats

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Originally Posted by prendrelemick

Thanks for that ^ Morpheus.

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Thanks for reading. :)

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Originally Posted by tonywalt

In the British Caribbean we had a rather antiquated curriculum growing up and Keats, Yeats, and Wordsworth were a big part of literature class after our 11 plus (or was it 12 plus) primary school. I am thankful I was introduced so young.

"When I have fears" is very much my favourite. It best laments the reality of mortality. This sonnet is more of modernism than of romanticism- in way that lept out at me as a kid. It really applies to anytime, anyone, and anyplace.

Thanks for bringing this up Neely and to think he was in his early twenties when he created these pieces - more than a prodigy. I hope this is still in the British Primary/Secondary curriculum.



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It's not compulsory but I'm sure some teachers use Keats some time. It would also be more likely covered at A-level or university for English literature courses.

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Originally Posted by MorpheusSandman

For anyone who cares, I wrote an ode to Keats using his poems as a springboard (as well as Shakespeare, since Keats was such a huge fan). I'm not really fond of the piece myself (I hoped to merge the archaic with something more modern, and I failed in the latter goal), but this is as good a place as any for it:

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To Keats

“I have left no immortal work behind me – nothing to make my friends proud of my memory – but I have lov'd
the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember'd.”
– John Keats to Fanny Brown, Feb. 1820

No man knows aught of what he leaves behind;
    But you, immortal prince, I cry to think
You thought, while on your death-bed, that your mind
    Was not yet gleaned by your eternal ink;
As if we could forget the beauty wrought
    On urns, from melancholy, indolence,
        The vanishing of autumn; in the fall
Of gods, Hyperion and Psyche, brought
    Back into life, the past in present tense;
    And we’re all raptured out of perfect sense
        By nightingales that, like sweet death, still call.

Being a prisoner of that deceiving
    Elf—oftentimes it’s all that we can do.
How easy we forget there’s others grieving
    Like us, who’d welcome living death, like you.
So we remember, yes, But what’s the use
    To those deaf-mutes amongst the dead? Your thought
        Of being forgotten was your own, your last,
And though we praise your life and work, the sluice
    Of death drowns all the laurels that you sought,
    The thin-spun life is cut, the Gordian Knot,
      And everything is buried in the past.

Are you now standing all alone upon
    The shore of that wide world, still lost in thought,
Where love and fame to Nothingness are gone,
    Sunk far below the night? And have you brought
With you that fane, the sanctuary built
    Inside your brain; and is the casement
        Still opened, letting warmth and shadows in?
Or have the rosy buds begun to wilt,
    The gardener gone, his tools left in the basement,
    With everything awaiting their replacement
        In shambles, where the brightest torch had been?

No, no; the fire lives beneath the leaves
    That never burn—a phoenix set ablaze
May die, and turn to ash, but will conceive
    New life, reborn in every spark and gaze
That enters in the palace you created,
    Yielding its beauties to us willingly,
        Like harvests in a fall that never ends.
Remember thee? While memory is seated
    Inside this globe, aye poet; while the sea
    Still flows and eats the rocks from fallen screes,
        Aye prince. Though we’re apart, your art can mend

What days sicken and break—time out of joint;
    And is it truth or beauty that will heal?
You’d say that they’re conjoined twins, a point
  We question. What I know is what I feel;
You’d say that that’s enough; but lonely, lost,
    It’s hard to find that Gemini, or one
        Bright star, steadfast. The nightingale may sing,
But it’s a siren’s song, while we’re all tossed
    About the foam and spray. Yet let the sun
    Set. I’ll open your music box and shun
        The world; no need to change my state with kings.

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Great poem and idea. I didn't know or had forgotten Keats thought such things. How sad.

Thanks, Neely. I always found that quote so poignant and heartbreaking.

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Originally Posted by Gilliatt Gurgle

By God, that does it!
I've seen enough references to Keats over the past 3 years while loitering around this place, it's time I gave him a try.
You didn't steer me wrong on Wilde, Neely, so I'll put trust in your Keats.
I will look in To Autumn

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^That was the end of November. I waited patiently for Christmas only to find a Critical Analysis of Keats under the tree.
Even Santa screws up from time to time.
Today I feasted on four tamales smothered in chile with rice on the side for lunch then sauntered across the street to the Half Price Books mother ship in Dallas and picked up John Keats Selected Poems Oxford University Press, that includes To Autumn.
Nearby on the shelf was Ben Johnson selected poems - entirely random grab so we'll see.