On reading Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn,”
and moved by that sweet, dulcet, deathless ode,
my kindled spirit through his fire doth burn,
and yearns to tread his same resplendent road
of Poesy. Though Keats compels through early death,
his measured music wakes eternal powers
of rhyme and awe. O sanctifying Breath!
his words still bloom—a fragrant choir of flowers.
But poets such as he must soon perish
(too soon!). Yet I receive his mantle; may
his genius fill my soul’s most ardent wish,
to forge such odes as bide the Judgment Day.
These lines shall live if Keats my heart inspire,
for his “Grecian Urn” yet burns with deathless fire.
Towering Urn of 911
ashes
scattered
I fell in an urn of magic potion.
About my locus, I had no notion.
I found myself on a wide, whirly sea.
My boat had holes. From fall, I couldn't flee.
From shores I seemed to have gone far away.
Sea snakes, cone snails, sea urchins, and stingray…
From these wild creatures, how could I escape?
Perplexed, could I nestle and merely gape?
I had spent my life seeking for meaning.
Towards salvation has been my leaning.
I am moving towards life in my sail.
I feel, in my adventure, I won't fail.
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter” – John Keats
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* *
**|| beauty is truth, truth beauty ||**
||SOUL HAPPY LOVE||
M M
E A
N D
deities or mortals
*cold pastoral*
for ever wilt thou love
unravish'd bride of quietness
E P V S T P
C U I A E A
S R R C M S
T S T R P S
A U U I E I
C I E FI O
Y T S CE N
stone silence; artist
c l a s s i c a l
i d e a l i s t i c
artistic
MAY
1819
JOHN KEATS
feathers found - find themselves remembering his wife
He bought it at an estate sale, it had never been used
placed it upon the mantle to himself it did amuse
When company came over he loved to show it best
the urn upon his mantle his home of eternal rest
Never married thus childless a request he made to kin
after his death which one the urn could belong to them
Just place it on a shelf and dust it now and then
and if you spill the ashes don't throw them in the bin
Vacuum me up and empty back into the urn
and let me rest in your home as the seasons turn
Dear old Uncle Elmer more than in your hearts
resting peacefully within your home and hearth
You can chat with me I will always have an ear
even your darkest secrets I will never share
And you can will me to a favorite child
the urn to be a heirloom to showplace in style
Better than to be forgotten deep in a cold grave
the Urn with family I cherished being saved.
I feel so small and so insignificant
Waves so tall like white wall magnificent
Smelling new blue rain coming fast
Feeling pink pain in my bones so bad
Memories of the two of us
At the beach so new in love
As I watch the waves dart and dash
I should have known we would not last
Reveries of present seagull day
Ride the stream across the wave
New love is on the way, sweet like wedding cake
I believe in true love today.
I watch waves crash as life twist and turns
We pour ashes from a solid gold urn
Loving life and dealing with death’s burn
Waves teach us faith and why we must learn.
a
h a
p g
l e
a m
o
O_____________O
\ /
( )
( )
( )
( )
____________
I awoke with sadness
a yearning cry of an alias
that was tied to an Elton tune
was a sad day even for me
that morning
a few clicks was about it
some would say
the thought of lever
etched their mind's
to them was genius
it fit well
it was already being sung
he got here fast
his following friend came
and nothing like a cork
his followed with a dent
searing though his blind's now
waiting for me
a feast with bottle's of champagne
he took one
shook it up
mysteriously he was tied to it
hard to the cork with grief
he popped the cork
that day
shot straight up with it
If all you need to ask, "Is beauty truth?"
It isn't much you need to know on earth.
It's less than what appraisers say it's worth,
This jar with frieze depicting frozen youth.
Curators and collectors both agree
If forged or stolen, sold dishonestly
Museum art debased on pedestals
Makes hiding art seem safely tenable.
It may be better beauty be destroyed.
A little worshiper of idols still
Resides inside and ever, always will
Until we're much less worldly employed.
While thirsty an ascetic often thinks
Urns beautiful when everybody drinks.
(8/29/22)
a pot of clay to some
a piece of art to others
a muted shape of brittle ashen brown
with subtle ridges hidden to the naked eye
meant to be discovered only to the touch
my hands linger caressing the arches and the curves
etched like an old vinyl record played again once more
just between the you and me ~ that one thin wall of clay
protecting your ashes lovingly contained within ~
solemn the urn stands here in its place of honour
AP: 2nd place 2022
Submitted on March 6, 2022 for contest FORM I - IMAGISM sponsored by CONSTANCE LA FRANCE - RANKED 4TH
Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked
feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing
down to carve out craters in the earth, barren.
She crunches memories once perfect between
her toes - the past squelching-squashing
in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears.
His ashes, once held in an urn, float
now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase
cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand
grieving. It is said she walks under the moon
searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at
grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together,
her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame,
a skeleton of pottery.
the urns unit uniforms untimely steel contains every ash
8/16/20
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020 ©
in the dream
a clown asked me a question
I asked /it/ a question in return
neither of us had an answer...
two questions put into the urn
The left is desperately trying to gain a foothold
on the soiled neckbones of socialists and communists.
The right rallies around their Donny guns
and high-wall, lock-and-load Tommy gun rhetoric.
Neither side is working for the working people.
They breathe and breed for their own self-interest.
Cleaving families, battering 2A and mincing babies.
Though our carbon footprints are rather large
we all dream about going green.
But my, how we adore our gassy SUVs,
bidets, gouty meats, and wall-to-wall heat.
We're all hypocrites of the highest degree.
Few are making sacrifices for progeny or country.
We stumble along in the haze of mediocrity.
Where the losers wear medals never earned.
We are led to our deaths by the swine of the earth.
Sipping plutonium from a shimmering nuclear cup.
That looks a hell of a lot like an urn.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.