Damn it, Keats

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THE WRITING LIFE: A COLLECTION OF ESSAYS AND INTERVIEWS (written by National Book Award Winners) Grade: B
- not a bad book, and certainly interesting (to me), but unless you’re really interested in the process of writing, give it a pass.

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So, the other night I read my first Keats poem ever. Not bad. Despite my almost violent love for the novel, I’ve never been a big fan of two other forms of writing: the short story and poetry. Sure, there are some of each that I enjoy, (I still get all dreamy like a 15 year old girl when reading Pablo Neruda), but overall I just can’t get into poetry. I’ve tried, but either I find it silly, boring, or confusing. Plus, I simply don’t think I have the patience for it. To me, poetry was a bit like reading Aristotle or Kant. (Most poetry) you can’t take it to the beach and read it casually while sipping your Mojito. It takes a focused and committed mind, something I sadly, have not always had. There’s a reason I love multitasking so much.

ANYWAY, the point of this, was after I read that first Keats poem (very nice, loves nature, la la la), it inspired me immediately to write this poem on the back of my dental bill which was on the floor next to my bed. I wrote this in about 2 minutes, so don’t expect … well, Keats. Maybe another reason I’ve never loved poetry is that I could never write it well, and that’s always bothered me…

For now the hour has advanced quite late
An exhausted body is my current state
And though it is to slumber I should go
I cannot part from this book so
My weary eyes are locked to the page
Though nervous mind frets on tomorrow’s rage
Of a morning body struggling to rise from bed
Feeling much too like a soul half dead
If I only I had not begun that Keats
I would not have felt such physical defeat
Of unrested spirit cursing the day
And seething with the work in the way
Before the rendez-vous with the pillow when
Be felt the full-length kisses of the sheets again
Until then I glare at dawn’s early light
And promise self to do what is right
And not read my Keats while I lie in bed
But when then is a fitting alternate?
To fill my dreams with Kafka, Kundera, or Woolf?
Perhaps I should just forget all books
And soak up the television’s rays
And dream instead of Happy(ier) Days