For John Keats Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

perhaps he dreamed up his poems
that they should be past his Maytime flourishing
the brides of silence
unheard melodies he mused are sweeter
who could say that now
when everyone wants to be heard
but then he was a dreamer even for the times he lived in
and denizen of no socially trumpeting streets
inhabiting realms of gold
then coughing up blood
in the last retreats, so young! years condensed
beyond mead
who could match his effulgence
the brede work of exquisite workmanship
his melancholy exorbitance, bruised chivalries.
why wouldn't the nightingale want to live
among his branches forever
to sing effortlessly there
perhaps that's why we no longer speak of her so much, as such, nor care, not in the old ways dim beyond repair
because she has gone, banished to better kingdoms
with him, oh John Keats.
I would sing of pomegranates, of unflinching stars
and destinies of all you are and were
but you had left the harbor long since
and before I was a girl;
your Muse is past weeping now...

the sweet bird sings no fables here
not pouring out for our pragmatic ears
unceasingly, lavishly that music fountaining beauty
that he caught, rapturously,
world without end
mary angela douglas 31 october 2021