NEW POEM FOR JOHN KEATS ON HIS 200TH ANNIVERSARY

NEW POEM FOR JOHN KEATS ON HIS 200TH ANNIVERSARY

Our director, Todd Swift, as a young man, visited the Spanish Steps museum for Keats, set in the small house where the great Romantic poet died, on February 23, 1821, at the young age of 25. This visit never left Swift, and lead to this poem below.

Keats was already a published and supremely gifted writer of poems, and letters, and had trained and worked as a surgeon, when, very ill and coughing blood, he left his beloved friend and fiancée Frances 'Fanny' Brawne, and moved to Rome.

Born in London, and part of the so-called 'Cockney School', his work was not well-reviewed in his lifetime, and conservative critics mocked him. Keats, who knew he was dying, ended his life thinking he would be lost to future generations, but composed to the last, some of the finest and most poignant poems in the English language.

Along with Shakespeare, Wordsworth, and Milton, he is likely the most-quoted and respected English poet. In honour of his 200th anniversary, Swift composed a poem on February 23rd, using the 15-minute fast-poem approach that Keats and his friends themselves employed. We offer it here respectfully, to our readers.

 

five half-sonnets, POEM FOR JOHN KEATS COMPOSED EXACTLY 200 YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH, IN LONDON

Now at the hour when most do sleep

I read out of Norton poems by Keats

unable to find drowsiness or Lethe

here where truth leads youth’s beauty

to see gold dominions invisibly deep;

long have I aimed at the steep reaches

of polar austerity where few explore

 

without some keen perversity keening

to them to seek ice citadels so purely

formed as jewels by a crafty godhead

whose breath forms crystals of snow

as poets breathe sonnets from souls;

no difference but climate and geography

between those who go into wilderness

 

to become a knower of unsaid things

and my kind grown capable in astute

cunning able to discover newly made

kingdoms, fiery tropical or deadly

frozen - further their furred bearing

princesses, scholars, rascals, kings,

leaning on marble as if for posterity

 

unwise to their being merely creatures

fictioned in London with a sleeping

brain, aware of the night’s long abysms

that wake a maker to start up again

to light a taper casting lumination

scattering shadows like leaves playing

in a sonnet ripe with autumn dread

 

but also fecund with gaudy taverns

those bright legumes farmers bring

golden yellows from treasure harvesting

as if rich vines themselves were mined,

carved from mountains as if surgery

had cut away soft earth to expose

how mind is burning dark, darkly burning.

02-23-21, London

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