O Autumn! thou hast splendidly array'd
     Nature, whose robes are treasure-rich with colour.
A patchy quilt of dying leaves decay'd,
     Thou blanketest the world with deathly dolour.
I hear a voice inside my head.  I list.
     "Come buy, come buy," I hear in my mind's ear.
My pulse doth quicken suddenly in my wrist:
     The netherworld hath never been so near.
I harken to the rattling of the leaves
     That hang like vampyre bats from skeletal trees.
The songful birds that nested 'neath the eaves
     Have long since flown away with high degrees.
I'm cold and getting colder, and my breath
Is telling me I'm close to coming Death.

John Keats
Coughed tuberculosis all over his sheets
And died at 25
And remains unalive.

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

|small gee for god; big bee for byron|
Strikes a chord with you, does it?
This shambling poverty of thought,
Insta-rated and underwhelming;
Thank god for Byron.

|keats versus shelley|
Sparing no injury to his phthisicky frame,
Keats lies atop a make-believe of cherry trees
Searching among the clouds
For wealth, health and a Grecian urn,
While Shelley does Venice
And blows himself a hookah.

|o poesy! for thee I grasp my pen|
Panning the wayward sky for inspiration,
A hope, a word, a beginning;
A versification so ecstatic as to transfix the senses and pierce the heart,
A lightning phrase capable of uprooting all commonality,
As outrageous a miracle in the minds of men as crucified immortality.

|requiem|
Unlike the wilting rose which has no higher calling
Than to bloom and die upon the stem,
And having relinquished its last perfumed petal
Retreat from memory again,
I fear that I shall linger,
Tethered to this eternal moment
By shudd’ring will and breath combined,
A brighter shade of myself than what of me I have left behind.

I daily commit to being negatively capable
one might even say it’s the defining spark
of a life spent loving and hating
the art and accountancy
of the modern teacher’s grins and grind

So here’s a mellowly fruitful glass raised
to comrades and fellow sufferers
who dwell in uncertainty and decreasing circles
while those, as sure as idiots
forge ahead

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                   Keats Helps Carry a Cat to the Veterinarian

          [I]f Poetry comes not as naturally as the Leaves to a tree
                                 it had better not come at all

             -John Keats, Letter to John Taylor, February 27, 1818 1

The leaves come naturally from the trees today
As autumn floats away, onto the pages of life
Memories set down, one word at a time
Or phrases scribbled in heart-leaping haste

But in humility the poor poet perceives
That lines often don’t come naturally at all
Resisting as fiercely as hissing cats
Being crated for a trip to the vet

No

Poetry doesn’t come as easily as all that -
Come, Mr. Keats, and help me with this cat!


1 John Keats – "Keats's Axioms" -- Letter to John Taylor, February 27, 1818 | Genius

My autumn-hair grows grey, my eyes are tired,
The dawn is far away from me. I'm not the same,
And not the one who I sometime desired;
I just can only remember my name.
Time does pass by so quickly, and I try
To grasp the moments with my writing mind,
But still, most things of fleeting life pass by
As if it's nothing, not mend to be found.
And so, if past and future is unknown,
I'll focus on the moment of the present:
A bed, fresh air, the morning-sun now shown,
And lulled to sleep by every flower scent.
This is the ideal life I'm always seeking;
"Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."

On my pillow in broken English
And black ink.
A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window.
The clothes outside dangle
Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.

This city has its own sun
That beats down hard
Against the pavement.
Hearts beating hard
against the pavement
Of our souls and ribs.

If Fitzgerald was right
Then“they slipped briskly
into an intimacy
from which they never
recovered.”
Slipped                    and  


                 ­                                             fell.


Scars stain our hearts
And knees burn
Like the sun beats down
On the pavement
Of our memories.

But then again,
Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-

BOLD lover-
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter.”
Like you in my sweater.

Ode in a Spanish email
Plays on repeat,
Trapped in my head.
It’s that song that keeps be writing
About you
In this little book
Trapped in this little book
Like the etchings Keats admired
Trapped in the moment before
Their first kiss.
Forever trapped,
Lingering in their longing.

I’ll lick the wounds
Of paper cuts
From quickly turned pages
The sour blood of this longing
Tormented by time
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter”
Like a nagging child
Taunting-
Thumbs in ears,
Tongue out.

I wish my skin was sewn together
With the threads of that sweater
So you could wear me
Again
and
again.

You can search far and wide for a beauty that matches hers.
Only Gaia can hint at the beauty she possesses.
Her eyes are a soft green,
A gentle aquamarine like that of the sea;
They captivate and tranquilize you.
Only Helen's smile is a pale example of hers,
Which leaves you with the desire to see it again;
Nothing in nature surpasses her smile.
The right words will reveal her laugh,
Only the Nightingale's charming melodies can come close;
It is a siren's call that you follow repeatedly to hear again.
She radiates warmth when she holds you,
Like a gentle touch of glow of Apollo on your cheek;
A natural peace can be found when her arms are wrapped around you tight.
Her dark hair is as soft as a cloud,
Yet it runs through your fingers like wild silk;
She is a dark-haired version of Aphrodite when her hair is left down.
You can travel across the world in search of a beauty like hers,
But nothing can match it.
It is not restricted to the mortal body.
You have to look inside her heart to discover its origin.
She is kindness personified,
Her scruples displayed in her actions;
Maybe she is **** reborn into the modern world.
She holds conversations with all,
But she befriends only a select few;
Her exclusive circle open only to those she cherish.
I can wonder how blessed they are to be in her presence,
I only wish to be in her arms;
Yet she has carefully let me in with open arms,
While protecting the parts she is not ready for me to glimpse.
My patience and support she will eternally have,
As a friend, companion, or more;
Her happiness is my ever reaching ambition.
Not even Gaia can compete against this dark-haired mortal goddess,
Whose strength I forever admire.
She will always remain a compelling presence in my life,
No matter the Fates' intentions for our lives.