REVIVING MYSELF, A POEM

This poem was inspired by John Keats, who attended his brother’s deathbed, contracted TB, and died so young.

His poem, “To Autumn” is considered to be the best poem in English ever written.  He sold only 200 copies of his poetry at the time of his death.

The sentiments are mine.

REVIVING MYSELF

I TRIED TO PINPOINT THE PLACE,
THE TIME I FELL TO SLEEP,
THE AUDIT THAT DEEMED AN ACCOUNTING –
THE TREES AND BIRDS ABOVE ME DEEP
AND THE SEA BENEATH ME, MOUNTING.

AWAKE, I SAW THE STAR OF MY BIRTH,
IN A SKY OF CONSTELLATIONS –
THE VIEW, DEMANDING I ASSESS MY WORTH
SINCE BEFORE, SELF-VISITATIONS.
ALL THE WHILE, THE MOON GAZED AN EYE,
FIXED IN THE FACE OF REASON –
THE EARTH, MY ONE BUT WANTON HOME
MY SOURCE FOR ALL PAINED TREASON.

I WATCHED MY BURST COME FORTH IN THE MIST,
A LIGHT AND THEN A FOG –
IN THE PIERCING STAIN OF SILENCE OR GIST
MY CONVICTION DECAYED IN A BOG.

THE ABYSS CALLED OUT, “LIVE IN ECSTASY!”
ITS BODY HAGGARD AND LAMED –
KNOWING FOR ME, THAT IT WOULD BE
IN WEEPING AND IN SHAME…
BLIGHTED OR SLIGHTED,
FLOUNDERED OR MAIMED.

THEN, I WENT TO THE PLACE AS A CHILD FROCK’D,
FINDING LONGING IN PAIN AND SUFFERING –
THE MOROSE AND THE MUSE SITTING KEMPT ON A ROCK
THE GIRL LURCHING FORWARD INTO NOTHING.

TIMES STILL CLOCKED AND FROLICKED NOT,
THE WHIPPINGS OF CRUEL REALITY WROUGHT –
THE WHY AND HOW OF WANING YOUTH
THE SPURN OF LONELY INDIFFERENCE, FIRST.

MY PAIN REGAINED NEW FACE AND HAIR,
THE LONGING OF MY ATTACHMENTS –
CRUEL EXPECTATIONS AND FUTILE DARES
GRUELING LOSSES REIGNED TO DETACHMENTS.

YEARS BLED INTO LIFE, TO BE CREATED BY WOMB,
THE HOPE SPRINGING TO THE BEGOTTEN –
LIKE BUFFALO UPON THE PLAINS OF DOOM
FIRES SET AND THEN FORGOTTEN.

WHEN ONE HAS THEN AND ONE HAS NOT,
ONE FINDS ONE’S WAY AGAIN –
THE RAPID RUN OR WEIGHTLESS TROT
NOT ASKING, “WHEN NEXT, WHEN?” …

THE LOW HORIZON UPON MY GAZE
THE POWER OF HEIGHT FULFILLED,
THE DRIBBLING SANDS OF HOURGLASS DAYS
OPPORTUNITIES SAVAGELY PULLED.

THE CONSTELLATIONS THAT BROUGHT ME FORTH,
RINGING BELLS OF TIME AND SCISSORS –
MY FAITH LOOKING UP AND PRAYING FOR NORTH
FOR COMPASSES LESS FISSUR’D.

IN THE BEGINNING, TO THE LIGHT WE COME,
LABORED MAGNET, COG AND WHEEL –
TO GRAVITY’D FACES AND DESTINY’S HUM
OUR STAFFS SO LONG TO HEAL.

IF HUNGER OF BELLY, OR MIND OR HEART,
THE HIERARCHY OF NEEDS THEN, THUS DOES START –
AND BLAZING NEW TRAILS, WITH FREEDOM SET
BECOMES A DREAM TO FIND, LIBERATE AND BEGET.

ONTO THE TIME WHEN THE LIGHT IS QUIFF’D,
RECLINING THEN TO ANOINTING –
WHAT’S BEEN DONE AND WHAT’S BEEN STIFFED
THE GRAYED PODS WAVE THUS APPOINTING…

THE MIND OF THE LEAVING TRYING TO STAVE
THOUGHTS OF LOVE AS PICTURES TO THE GRAVE.

MY TIME COMES NOW OR HENCE OR THEN,
BUT WHEN IT DOES, I WON’T FEAR AGAIN…
LIKE SOD OR SEED THE TIME DOES TELL
TO LIVE IN EACH, MY HEAVEN AND HELL.

WHEN VIEWING STARS, THE TIME DOES END
BUT BLACK AND LIGHT DOES RAIN AGAIN –
CLOUDS OR PEWS OR WAITING ROOMS
THE SHROUDS AND CUES FROM STATING LOOMS…

SO, I WHIRL INTO THE GREEN AGAIN,
WITH TEMPESTS RAILING HARD –
THE FIFE AND THE WHIRLIGIG DOES FAN
WELCOMED CHUMS TO MY OWN BARD.

BUT, WHERE IS THE PLACE
THAT THE HEART SINGS SONGS,
“GOODNESS OF FREE WILL IS GAINING!”
AND WHERE DO ROSES UPON THORNY PRONGS
BLOOM LAUGHTER, NEVER WANING?

IT IS THE BREATH AND THE NOISE,
THE LAST RATTLE…
THAT KEEPS THE SONG FROM THUS REGALING.

WHEN NOW, I COME TO THE END OF THE PHRASE
THE BREATHING SADDENED TO STOPPING –
I AM LONGING NOW FOR SOMETHING I GAVE
BUT CAN’T BRING THAT THING TO CROPPING.

OH MUSE, OH MUSE, OH HEAVENLY NIGHT,
REVIVE ME STILL AGAIN…
IT IS THE HEAVING AND THE WEAVING,
LIFE’S OWN SONG…

AND THE TIME BETWIXT REMAINING.

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