March 2015
I have been writing poetry for over 30 years now. Along with traveling, cafes and my darling family, poetry is my sustenance! John Keats (as you will note below) is one of my literary obsessions. I am the author of five poetry collections, including most recently WE LIT THE LAMPS OURSELVES (Salmon Poery, Ireland), NEW GIRL (Anchor & Plume Press), and YAYA' S CLOTH (Iris Press). My new book, An Ink Like Early Twilight is forthcoming from Salmon Press. I live in Madison, Wisconsin.
...Upon Reading that
the John Keats House has
finally Re-opened to the Public
I remember sneaking
over the low, wrought-iron gate
at the side of the house, approaching
the green door missing its knob,
the many-paned windows shutter-sealed,
as if the Bureaucrats of Renovation
sought to prevent
at any cost
the slightest revelation--
even the plum tree
where the nightingale once sang
was uprooted.
I persisted,
peered and circled
round to the back garden,
found the sitting room window
that was his--
I shut my eyes
to wait for him there.
In the Garden of Keats
I lay down in clover grass,
my fingers dyed crimson
from the mulberries
I'd plucked off the low winding
branches that sprawled nearly to the poet's door.
Even the ivory pages of my book
were stained and smeared with a red
I would never forget,
before the docent emerged from the house
to tell me no,
I must not pick,
I must not eat
the fruit off the ancient,
perfect tree.
I lay down in clover grass,
my fingers dyed crimson
from the mulberries
I'd plucked off the low winding
branches that sprawled nearly to the poet's door.
Even the ivory pages of my book
were stained and smeared with a red
I would never forget,
before the docent emerged from the house
to tell me no,
I must not pick,
I must not eat
the fruit off the ancient,
perfect tree.
Upon Entering Keats' House
No nightingales sang,
no ancient urns
mused aloud,
But the air
in the midst of wide quietness,
the air met me
with a weight, a texture
like vellum bearing
an onslaught of lost words
my whole body read at once.
No nightingales sang,
no ancient urns
mused aloud,
But the air
in the midst of wide quietness,
the air met me
with a weight, a texture
like vellum bearing
an onslaught of lost words
my whole body read at once.
At Keats' Grave
Non-Catholic Cemetary, Rome.
I found the granite lyre,
the raised letters: Here lies one
whose name was writ in water.
Among the cypress and pine, loud birdsong,
and dark purple iris beside his stone,
a handful of withered roses lay sprawled,
a white rock etched with initials.
I rummaged in my pockets,
found no flower or bead,
no chip of amber like the one I'd left
for my grandmother.
All I had was my new pen,
filled to the top with an ink
that wrote like early twilight.
I wedged it just below
Feb. 21, 1821, planted it--there.
Let the earth carry my message.
Credits: "In the Garden of Keats" was previously published in Poetry Salzburg Review. "At Keats' Grave" was first published in Naugatuck River Review, and is forthcoming in my collection AN INK LIKE EARLY TWILIGHT (Salmon Poetry).
©2015 Andrea Potos