Keats Poems - Poems about Keats

I forget— like how leaves forget their tree once autumn called them free. Moments slip and leave an unsettling void for dreams to flourish. Uninvited, wearing the mask of memory. A fiction sung in earnest, stitched in gray hours— where dreams blend into truth. A hushed whisper: “Beauty is truth,”—but I wouldn’t know if the echoes I call "mine" ever rang— I am built of broken facts, soft edits, and pills that patch up what...

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Heir on Fire by Michael R. Burch I wanted to be Shelley’s heir, Just fourteen years old, and consumed by desire. Why wouldn’t my Muse play fair? I went to work—pale, laden with care: why wouldn’t the words do as I aspired, when I wanted to Keats’s heir? My verse seemed neither here nor there. How the hell did Sappho tune her lyre? And...

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ABOUT A LETTER I was cleaning and re-arranging my Precious book-shelves, A lot came down, a lot went back after dusting Off, much of such Dust, but one blue heavy book caught my attention, I am not of those who often delves, But this one tickled my fancy, maybe a connection, I noticed something, I should have before, that was so Visible, between...

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My uncle’s name is Keats. He eats all kinds of sweets. This habit, his caring wife hates Saying that his sugar levels it dilates. One day one of his friends visits his house, Hands over a box of sweets to his spouse. To have one from it he tries, This, his wife strongly denies. Secretly he looks for them like a mouse. He opens...

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Poet’s see beyond the cosmos that’s why they’re revered Poet’s leave the final time zone past and future cleared Poet’s bow to one volition high above the clouds Poet’s live in love’s reflection — beauty to enshroud (Dreamsleep: February, 2024) ...

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Critics Beware! Poets are vulnerable no less than anyone, when fallen victim to outrageous critics. As Shelley wrote, critics' darts struck Keats, who blindly, cruelly, mocked 'Endymion.' Lethal no less the heady potion fame. Some drowned, took poison, died paupers or insane. Yet poet-baiters must themselves take warning, wrote Heine in his 'Winter Fairy Tale.' Eternal lines, if barbed, outdo...

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At eighty-seven well past my prime Can you believe it no long can rhyme Even Shelly and Keats Have hung up their cleats Each had hoped for a life more sublime...

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Oh, standing by thy greenish grave ! I ponder for thousands of times I write and write and then tear out Hundreds of notes hundreds of rhymes Thousands of nightingales I heard But for thy nightingale I pine No Ruth haunted my cotton fields No casement in castles forlorn My wistful eyes gazed thy love They found thy...

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Oh lady, do you remember me? The flower you left in the book of poetry. I lay forgotten for so long, My petals dried, my colors gone. But then, a miracle occurred, I melted warm in the odes of Keats. His soul now resides within my own, And I breathe his poetic pain. Once I whispered to the Sun But now I sing, of...

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Fake admirers of John Keats are spotted, To check out if their luck goes as plotted, Accepted the challenge, They were so brave, But they turned out to be kindergarten kids, so naive,  How come a person claims to be Keats' admirer? If he hasn't faced the pain and is not a survivor, Whoever hasn't read John Keats' letters, Should be tied...

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drop enough words on the universe you might crack something open you might find your way– –I don't know when a boulder hits the atmosphere it becomes a fizzle a morning glory radiant splendor shut tight before your morning cup maybe enough weight falls through to touch your heart and there it sits its precious metal undetected for years, decades, centuries how many words have fallen nowhere how...

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John Keats qualified as a surgeon apothecary before concocting his poetry He also wrote ballads & odes but sonnets were his favourite mode...

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LIGHT VERSE AND NONSENSE VERSE IV Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by...

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I As I gaze upon thou face of sheer beauty I begin reminiscing about the times with thee The times at which hour vigor shone upon us like the oriental sun The times at which hour worries wast but a grain of sand The times at which hour unadulterated happiness wast present This feeling of...

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