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Jenny Gordon Mar 12
Keats swooned over a world that never was, except in dreams, and I've no use for that.


In lieu of aught we know:  blue skies t'avail
Sans blot of clouds 'til puddles mirror thence
Heavn's eye...take up the chalice to drink hence
That fragrant draught which yields as if to scale
More heady visions than we've drunk, t'exhale
Like sailors on the faerie seas, pretense
Our dainty meat; as lovers swoon for sense
Oer plighted troth, not as we know; sans bail.
Go into raptures likeas Keats would stir
And Byron knew to write, as Shelley drew
Up in his Ode, faint cuz ye know in tour
What minstrels sang in ballads, weaving to
Effect those silken strands to snare souls fer
The Devil's heights.  Cuz what we have won't do.

NOTE:  Who knows of L.E.L. ie Letitia Elizabeth Landon?  I prefer reality though it's far too shallow.
gracie Oct 2018
Keats says, "transcendence of the self",
so you become a fox, copper-coated,
bright-eyed. You become the light of a
harvest moon, playful and sweet,
dancing across the forest floor,
you become a lingering scent
on my thrift-store sweater: balsam or
cold brew coffee, wafting
through the bustling café. You become soft
Sunday afternoons, forehead kisses and
pretty words whispered over the phone,
the curl of my lip as I drift off
into sleep.
i think ur p cool
i like u alot
maybe we could... hang out? or somethin'
Emery Iler Jan 25
Hovering, its gentle, gleam a'glitter,
Sun rays hugging so daintily the plains of grass
That it could have been akin to quiet coveting
Of their transient green so far from its grasp

Then, as if in secret rising from the earth's coat,
From blades made chartreuse with sunset's caress,
There lifts a drunken, blanketed quiet that fill-
In preparation for the night- the land's every crevasse

Upon the branches arching, merging, enweaving,
Where the last few robins had been orchestrating,
The leaves give their tiny bodies up to the fading breeze;
A waltz so natural both need not bother hesitant contemplating

In dappling, splotching, sparks of amber scintillating a hue,
The trees too the sun embraces; the shades of sunlight
Creating a calico on its surface, still dull greens and greys amidst
Its autumn forgery, aureate bleeding bright

Nocturnal symphonies crescendo in harmonic chirps, croaks, and hoots;
As sunlight spools it's last golden threads to defy it's cruel god or master,
Who reigns, an even more kingly victory, wins last of battles, drags the sun down
To horizon's prison- subterranean capture.
Inspired by the odes of John Keats, I think modern poetry may have lost a hint of the same sort of grace, cleverness, and beauty he was so talented at creating.
Cash Carlos Jan 15
You open up the book,
and there it is,
waiting for you
like an old professor
with a furrowed brow,
ready to beat you over the head
with a ruler, as he tells you,
"This is great,
This is genius,
This is tradition!"

your mind shifts
to the girl who sat
next to you in high school English,
her bright eyes,
her a floral dress,
her shinny shoulders,
her dark hair like a waterfall
cascading into the desk in front of you;
And just as you take off your shoes,
and prepare to take a leap
into those deep, dark,
and tangled waters,
the professor smacks you on the head
with ruler,
to remind you Keats wasn't great
because he chased skirts
and drank liquor,
but because he knew meter
and form,
and proper punctuation;
and you will never be great
because all you know
is how to daydream
into places
where you don't belong.

You close the book of Great Poetry,
and never read it again,
then go for a walk
into the late afternoon
where the sun shines,
and the wind blows,
just as it is.
Ceyhun Mahi Dec 2018
I know for sure
That if the pretty poet had a life
So long as parrots,
This collection of poetry,
So small compared to others,
Would have been filled with soothing dreams,
Scented with the smell of sweet flowers
Growing in the wide meadows,
Where slender nymphs do live
And little nightingales,
Singing great songs.
Ceyhun Mahi Aug 2018
I have read your words, O Poet of Pain,
Their musicality is bliss to ears,
A taste of sweets to mind when each one hears
About the lonely stars, about the rain.
The urn, the nightingale have stayed the same,
Since the moment they were written down, fears
Of loss and of decay (because of years)
Are not to be found – nothing gone to vain.

Your life and sacred love is stated clearly,
For beauty and the truth, who I can see
Although, like springs, it's repeated and old.
O Bard of Bright Letters! I thank you dearly,
That you have written lines of poetry
To us and yourself; their worth 's more than gold.
I have read many poets but I know only a few who have infleunced me a lot. John Keats is one of them. Beauty, Love and Truth described through romantic verses referring to nature. That is what motivates me as a poet, and I have found that in Keats.
Jack Apr 2018
I want to be a poet,
Studied like Keats and Shakespeare,
For my writings to invoke love, sadness and fear,
For classrooms to be filled with my spilled words,
More exciting stuff than multiplication and surds,
For entire essays written about my verbalisation of life,
To let them know my truest pains and strife,
So people know how I feel about ‘her’,
For them to learn, to me, her identity is a blur,
To make my perfect family proud,
To have the world to know ‘Jack Youd’

Or am I just a lonely poet,
Writing words never to be read, embraced and felt,
All my words, wisdom and woes,
And yet people will never know it.
i want to be a poet. JY x
blue mercury Mar 2018
in this pestilence and heartache,
i doth lie here without remembering
an instance where i shall not stay
in this quietly bleeding prison

my hands have groped the air
for a phantom amongst the breeze
but there is no longer a soul to spare
when i am brought back to my knees.

i feel my prayers are but thrown
fruitless pleadings to the sky
my truths to bear, are mine alone
never will they be your plight

you hold your head to my chest
and we dream away the time
this prison feels like a prison less
when your heart is calling to mine
romantic Romantics
Priya Nayak Apr 2017
I never understood poetry in school,
could never comprehend how words
made themselves join into sentences
that rhymed deep inside your brain
making you wonder how the English language
worked, for every word I read flew way over my head.
I could never see past initial meanings
and wondered often how hyperbole worked
as I stayed up late at night
wishing I knew the difference
between metaphors and similes
until the night drained over
and dawn threatened to show.
I didn’t know why Frost
spoke of diverging roads
or why Keats
wrote about love lost.
Until I came to Grade 11
and the reality of the world
with all its hidden secrets
was born bare.
I understood
how roads seeming so straight
could be crooked in all sorts of ways
and how promises made
to be loved forever
could disintegrate into ashes and dust.
I never understood poetry in school,
and I do not understand it now.
For, everything is poetic,
the same way everything is not.
Brad French Mar 2017
Keats I can feel your pain deep below
Poetry is slowly killing me, Oh the flow
Help me find the musical glow
It’s up to her music’s poetry to save me
Or is it all in my mind?
Or is it to unkind?
I could do better than that-ignoring her-
I relax in my poetic space for awhile
Looking at this page of doubt
Fixating my mind in spheres
The glorious sound of music’s hell
She screams in bed while I play her shell
I think about all of her leers and fears-
******* her makes me move
Playing the lute, or should I say electricity
I only found out she only knew
I’m only there for her new-news
Irresistible love games and screws
She’s trying my luck- It’s time to leave-
I guess hashtags matter.
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