Keats, one of the most lyrical poets, actually considered poets as most 'unpoetical' beings...
Ode to Keat's Idea of Poetical MindAnd so raved one of the finest poet of his times:
A poet has no mind, no soul,
He is nothing, and everything,
He has no self...
His mind enjoys light and shade,
He is sensual and sensuous:
What shocks the virtuous philosopher,
Delights the 'Chemilion' Poet;
It does no harm from its relish
of dark side of things, any more
then its taste for the bright one,
because they both end in speculation.
A poet is most unpoetical
of any thing in existence;
Because he has no identity!
He is continually in for-
and filling some other body...
''The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and
Men and Women, are creatures
Of impulse, and are poetical;
And have about them
an unchangeable attribute;
A poet has none; no identity!"
A poet certainly is the most
Unpoetical of all God's Creatures...
And thus he went on degrading himself,
Degrading his work, disgracing himself;
Using the term 'negative capability':
Capable of being in uncertainties,
Mysteries, doubts without any
Irritable reaching to fact or reason;
Content with half knowledge,
with no thrust in heart's perception...
He was certain of nothing, but
'The holiness of Heart's affections
And the truth of imagination:'
'What imagination seizes as Beauty must be true:'
"Truth is Beauty, Beauty is Truth!'
"Satyam! Shivam! Sundaram!"
Passion as of Love, in all their sublime,
Are creative of essential Beauty;
"My imagination is the Monastery,
And I am the Monk!"
"How beautiful is the air;
How fine is the Season"
"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run..."
And yet, when he died, her asked that his grave
should not carry his name; the epitaph:
'Here lies One, Whose Name was Writ in Water'
'a Young English Poet, Who, On his death bed,
in the Bitterness of his Heart ,
at the Malicious power of his Enemies,
Desired these Words to be Engraved,
On his Tomb Stone,' that did not bear his Name...
And I often think, how such a fine poet suffered!
Or, may be he was great, because he suffered?
Like the tempering of steel, the fire of his passion,
Gave sheen to his words, meaning to his poems.
Like the breeze in Spring, like the flower in Summer;
Like the fire in Autumn; Like the Snow in Winter...
Author: Zoya Zaidi
Copyright ©: Zoya Zaidi
Aligarh (UP), India
28th July 2014; 12-1AM
Poetry by Zoya Zaidi
Read 1701 times
Written on 2014-09-24 at 11:44
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