After Keats's Name was Writ in Water

A Man’s Life of any worth

is a continual allegory—

and very few eyes can see

the Mystery of his life—

a life like the scriptures,

figurative.

                                John Keats

                Quoted from Posthumous Keats

                Stanley Plumly

moon

soon I will see you

in a sky I usually paint

beneath my skull—

soon such a bone

will be turned to you

and the sky it is

will be the sky it reflects.

It is the domed roof

of a planetarium

I sit with,

tilted back, poles marked.

and all that lies between

are pointed out,

plotted.  Each day

it is almost always

the same:

but for a slight shift

it is uncalculated.

Sit in a boat, won’t you.

And drop anchor.

Or maybe just drift.

What feels solid

beneath the feet

is liquid glass.

Days without you

are such boats—

but I imagine too

much.  See what such

distance allows?

I hear a song

and think another lung

is breathing it

out.  Beneath you,

in this sky,

I am as alone

as I always was.  Yes,

someone else is looking

up.  A million

million someones.

They walk toward you

with their eyes.

I, sightless, take my first

step into the water.

I am no Jesus.

The boat is still,

drifting.  Still

drifting.  You are brighter

beneath the waves

than I ever thought

was possible.  I did not know

until now, how blind

I was.

kiss me like you mean it

When through the old oak forest I am gone,

   Let me not wander in a barren dream,

But when I am consumed in the fire,

 Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

                                                                                John Keats

moon—

 

I think it has begun to rain.

Soft drops bend the leaves, still

  the crickets…

birds though—they remain

beneath a canopy of variegated

green, easy

in their song.  And the warm

air presses gently against

 my cheek,

the way in a dream a lover

would, the thin aural mingle

without pressure

or consumption—simply

warmth

that would, ah, never could,

ebb away, even if

the rain gained speed

and all fled

save the curved bowls

of one mouth

against another within it all,

even if the rain ceased

and the crickets resumed

rubbing, rubbing

transmigration

moon

front to back

I put you in an order

to save you

to write on either side

both sides

of you

and you’re half

the pile you could be.

While I’m away

you’ll sit inside a lidded

binding…

You know how

naïve I am—

and the lengths I go

because of it.

Months ago

these pieces of you

made me

ecstatic.

Now they are flat.

Now they seem

a corpse

surrendered

to the fall.

If something appears

dead, and all

have walked away

is there some shred

of life still?  Could

some drop

of air

falling into the open

mouth of it all

arouse the tongue,

the throat?

Earlier I watched you

merge with a pine

floor.

You floated

before you soaked it.

You.  Not your reflection.

And I thought:

because it’s been so long,

your departing,

I could stoop

and scoop you

like a handful

of snow—

and if I swallowed you

maybe I’d survive

being revived

tone of tongues

I need to find the tone of voice

that listens as well as speaks.

                                                Stanley Plumly

                                                Posthumous Keats

moon

your light is granite

gray, like the rough

stones in the wall

that retain the grass

that retain the slope

beside the house.

If I split them

would they be smooth

inside?

I live in the textures

of such a color,

a palette of pockets,

 or nesting

 bowls I sip from

even though

they remain

bereft of 

something I cannot 

name.  Inside

they are frayed

or glazed

to glass.  Outside

what's coarse is easy

to seize.

Nothing slips.

Still,

if it's rough

 and unbrushed

and slippery

inside

it is a grip

all its own:

I’m not sure

 if it makes me

 speechless

or so filled

with words

I can not find the one

that fits inside of me,

or me

inside of it