Dear Keats Poem by Erica Jong

Dear Keats

Rating: 3.9

Already six years past your age!
The steps in Rome,
the house near Hampstead Heath,
& all your fears
that you might cease to be
before your pen had glean'd. . . .

My dear dead friend,
you were the first to teach me
how the dust could sing.
I followed in your footsteps
up the Heath.
I listened hard
for Lethe's nightingale.

& now at 31, I want to live.
Oblivion holds no adolescent charms.
& all the 'souls of poets
dead & gone,'
& all the 'Bards
of Passion & Mirth'
cannot make death-
its echo, its damp earth-
resemble birth.

You died in Rome-
in faltering sunlight-
Bernini's watery boat still sinking
in the fountain in the square below.
When Severn came to say
the roses bloomed,
you did not 'glut thy sorrow,'
but you wept-
you wept for them
& for your posthumous life.

& yet we all lead posthumous lives somehow.
The broken lyre,
the broken lung,
the broken love.
Our names are writ in newsprint
if not water.

'Don't breathe on me-' you cried,
'it comes like ice.'


Last words.
(I can't imagine mine.
Perhaps some muttered dream,
some poem, some curse.)

Three months past 25,
you lived on milk.
They reeled you backward
in the womb of love.


A tepid February Roman Spring.
Fruit trees in bloom
& Hampstead still in snow
& Fanny Brawne receives a hopeful note
when you are two weeks dead.

A poet's life:
always awaiting mail.


For God's sake
kick against the pricks!
There aren't very many roses.
Your life was like an hourglass
with no sand.
The words slid through
& rested under glass;
the flesh decayed
to moist Italian clay.


At autopsy,
your lungs were wholly gone.
Was that from too much singing?
Too many rifts of ore?
You spent your life breath
breathing life in words.
But words return no breath
to those who write.

Letters, Life, & Literary Remains . . .

'I find that I cannot exist without poetry. . . .'

'O for a Life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!'

'What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth. . . .'

'We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us. . . .'

'Sancho will invent a Journey heavenwards as well as anybody. . . .'

'Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul.'

'Why should we kick against the Pricks when we can walk on the Roses?'

'Axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses. . . .'

'Until we are sick, we understand not. . . .'

'Sorrow is Wisdom. . . .'

'Wisdom is folly. . . .'


Too wise
& yet not wise enough
at 25.
Sick, you understood
& understanding
were too weak to write.

Proved on the pulse: poetry.

If sorrow is wisdom
& wisdom is folly
then too much sorrow
is folly.

I find that I cannot exist without sorrow
& I find that sorrow
cannot exist without poetry. . . .

What the imagination seizes as beauty
must be poetry. . . .

What the imagination seizes must be. . . .


You claimed no lust for fame
& yet your burned.
'The faint conceptions I have of poems to come brings
the blood frequently into my forehead.'

I burn like you
until it often seems
my blood will break
the boundaries of my brain
& issue forth in one tall fountain
from my skull.


A spume of blood from the forehead: poetry.

A plume of blood from the heart: poetry.

Blood from the lungs: alizarin crimson words.


'I will not spoil my love of gloom
by writing an Ode to Darkness. . . .'

The blood turns dark;
it stiffens on the sheet.
At night the childhood walls
are streaked with blood-
until the darkness seems awash with red
& children sleep behind two blood-branched lids.


'My imagination is a monastery
& I am its monk . . .'

At five & twenty,
very far from home,
death picked you up
& sorted to a pip.
& 15 decades later,
your words breathe:
syllables of blood.

A strange transfusion
for my feverish verse.

I suck your breath,
your rhythms & your blood,
& all my fiercest dreams are sighed away.

I send you love,
dear Keats,
I send you peace.
Since flesh can't stay
we keep the breath aloft.

Since flesh can't stay,
we pass the words along.

Sylvia Frances Chan 25 October 2019

CONGRATULATIONS on winning the prize of The Modern Poem Of The Day, dear Erica! You are still my most favourite Poetess and writer and you admired the same Keats as I do. A happiest coincidence, must I say. This goes To MyPoemList. A grateful 10 and myriad 10´s more.

2 1 Reply
Sylvia Frances Chan 25 October 2019

I discovered that yiou have won TWICE this Prize of Honour in Poem Hunter. Double CONGRATS!

1 1 Reply
M Asim Nehal 25 October 2018

An Epic and heartfelt poem. The flow, the emotion makes this lengthy poem enjoyable. A great tribute.

1 1 Reply
Ratnakar Mandlik 25 October 2018

A glowing tribute paid to a departed friend. You spent your life breath, breathing life in words Very inspirational lines.

0 1 Reply
Ruta Mohapatra 25 October 2018

'Since flesh can't stay, we pass the words along'...........Classic!

0 1 Reply
Dr Dillip K Swain 05 October 2023

'What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be favourite line! Many congratulations! !

0 0 Reply
Sylvia Frances Chan 05 June 2020

Dear Erica! You are still my most favourite Poetess and writer and you admired the same Keats as I do. A happiest coincidence, must I say. This most magical poem have I put ToMyPoemsList. You must know, I have never Fear Of Flying. Best wishes from A Dutch Poetess Sylvia Frances Chan. We are on the same Poem Hunter Poem Site. I believe in God, so I end with God's Blessings for YOU!

0 0 Reply
Bill Cantrell 25 October 2019

This I must say is one of the best poems I have ever read! ! your crimson words that you attribute to this poet is matched by yours, I applaud your genius and pure raw talent! ! ! What a great poem this is! ! ! ! Wow! Wow! Wow! ! ! !

0 0 Reply
James Mclain 25 October 2019

Yes a tremendous amount of work went into this poem. James McLain 🎸

0 0 Reply
Harley White 25 October 2019

Amazing tribute to Keats... wonderful poem...

1 1 Reply
Erica Jong

Erica Jong

New York City
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