A brush with life
A day in adulthood

A helpless follower

A man draped in tattered clothes

After dark

An axe on Keats

And can't I mould my future

And how the dreams fall

Being in love

Bereft of success

Between despair and hope

Come back soon
Devil and his counterpart

Devour

Engineers

Epitaph

Farewell

Farewell from the circle of friends

Fast moves the time

Femina

Finding Estella again

Freedom came cheap

From where to nowhere

Fulfillment

Harvest

Heart in Everest

Heaven to hell and back again

HOME

How he lies amid his ruins, and you smile

How I missed the beauty

I want to be your nosering
I weave a dream
I wonder
Insomnia

Kiss from a rose

Land's end

Leeches in my soul

Letter from battlefield

Looking back

Losing everything

Love and compromise

Love in modern times

Madonna

My abode among the clouds

My beloved

Naga Sadhu goes digital

Nevertheless I tried

Ode

On St. Valentine

On visiting an old place

Papa dear

Rancour

Reminiscences from my graveyard

Stranger at the tavern

Suspended animation

Tears, idle tears

Telephone call to my beloved

Tell her I am dead

Termination

That passed, this also may

The blissful illusion

The breathless seashore

The bride

The Buddha smiled, but he died

The cigarette butt, the mosquito blood

The day after the crossing

The desert princess

The dipping sun

The eve of St. Valentine

The frozen wet damsel

The last word

The pen and the paper

The phoenix

The pimp

The silence spoke so much

The soldier's lament

The tear left a trail

The world beyond innocence

They tell me I am mad

Thoughts of tomorrow

Titanic

To hug her close or leave her alone

Today I die

Vain is the wish to be born again

Vanished figure

Walking through the streets of a country deprived

When loss pains no more

Where the grass in not painted green

Which is better?

Wild nights
You don't ask

You see why I died

Priyatu's World > Poetry>  An axe on Keats

An axe on Keats

Yes, heartaches have I had many,
Deprived of hordes of wild beauty,
Forever beyond the reach of desperate hands-
No, the nightingale didn’t cry and fill
My ears with drowsy numbness-
That lunatic lovelorn, years ago dreamt,
O, not of beauties such as to perplex me,
But of some pitch black bird!
Oh! And the mismatched epithet 'lover Keats'-
What of love did he know-?
The frantic cries of Isabella,
Feeding her basil with tears?
The exotic Lamia dying on her marriage night?
Some unspoken words that were best left buried
In his chest, out of sight?
What of love he knew, I ask
When he never wrote of peers?
Dealt in fantasies of unhurried
Arcadia, in the long buried past?
He mistook intellectual illusions for
Stirrings in his heart.
Hallucinating, trauma induced,
He mistook himself for Romeo
And played his tragic part.
-6\8\99,Calcutta-63

COMMENTS : 

Keats is always the favourite with students of poetry. The biggest reason is probably that he was the most romantic, in the popular sense of the word. There is always an element of sensuousness in his poetry- sensuous in both senses (firstly, pertaining to the senses. Secondly, pertaining to sex), sometimes bordering on saccharine. The surprising fact about Keats is that people should be so much besotted to his poetry because of its love content- and if you carefully examine his poems you will find that there is no love to be found. Even if we exclude his personal life from consideration (almost an impossibility in Keats criticism) and take his poems at their own merit, we find a form of love that is very insubstantial, we find the lovers not quite human and even the quality of love borders on extremity. Thus, in Lamia we have a supernatural female falling in love with a human male; in Isabella we have the most grotesque love-story of all literature; in La Belle Dame Sans Merci we have another human-supernatural match; in Eve of St. Agnes we have a prototype of the Romeo-Juliet story in a setting that is not quite conductive to love with nebulous horizons; we have some odes where the speaker of the poem falls in love with some deity, etc. Everywhere we either have grotesque lovers or grotesque stories- he quite seems to have forgotten that love is the most human of all emotions. His poetry is devoid of humanity in this sense. Comparing his love poetry with that of Donne, Browning and Yeats we find what love in human context means- the only form of love that is comprehensible to us- and which is missing in Keats.

[This is only a personal observation]

 

My favourite picks

Devil and his counterpart
Devour
Epitaph
Farewell from the circle of friends
Femina
Finding Estella again
Harvest
Kiss from a rose
Land's end
Leeches in my soul
Love and compromise
Nevertheless I tried
Stranger at the tavern
Suspended animation
Tell her I am dead
The blissful illusion
The breathless seashore
The bride
The cigarette butt, the mosquito blood
The dipping sun
The pimp
They tell me I am mad
To hug her close or leave her alone
You see why I died
Wild nights