1 . Must all poems be sonnets of unrequited love? To even suggest so is blasphemy. Keats seeks the companionship of the forest, and all its citizens. Keats is dying of tuberculosis, and being trained as a doctor, understands fully his condition. This poem is honoring the vitality of the bird and unearths his frailty and weakness.
Of course, this particular bird is not immortal, it is the symbol of the Nightingale he is addressing. The sweet, melodious winged thing freely flying and singing because it must out of pure elation and divine nature. John is experiencing this instance with all the glory and wide-eyed melancholy of a doomed man. He soaks the sedation of the forest, but longs for more. He seeks the indulgence of some satiating drink to hush his weary, tragic mind.
Keats is dying and is blessed with the true beauty of his surroundings. He sees the forest as we have not, can not. He seeks the natural purity of unspoilt existence. He hopes to forget himself and all his suffering in the untainted sublime forest, and he finds the symbol of pure joy. To which he so contrasts yet idolizes. He so badly wants to forget himself in this proud Ecstasy of song, but cannot.
After writing his emotions and sensations and this wondrous experience, his lost imaginings recount themselves and recollect his presence. He can lose himself in his pen no longer. He realizes his reality and in a daze, utters his tragedy of physical state.
2. This cry of adoration is everything the Romantic Spirit embodies. This poem is a deeply ardent; passionate; fervent moan of an unquenchable thirst for a life full of love and true beauty. The Romantic Spirit lived within Keats. He saw the world in a golden haze and knows own self as a portal to death. Yet he wishes to purge himself of such horrific suffering - so, he goes on a truly Romantic adventure into the wild forest to view and soak in the amorous sights of the natural, mythical, faery realm of his imaginings, wishes and wakeful dreaminess.
3.
1.
-Keats seeks the companionship of the forest, and all its citizens.
"And with thee fade away into the forest dim."
-This poem is honoring the vitality of the bird and unearths his frailty and weakness.
"The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown."
-The sweet, melodious wing'ed thing freely flying and singing because it must out of pure elation and divine nature.
"But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot."
-He seeks the indulgence of some satiating drink to hush his weary, tragic mind.
"O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth"
"O for a beaker full of the warm South!"
-He so badly wants to forget himself in this proud Ecstasy of song, but cannot.
"Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret"
-He realizes his reality and in a daze, utters his tragedy of physical state.
"Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!"
2.
- he goes on a truly Romantic adventure into the wild forest to view and soak in the amorous sights of the natural, mythical, faery realm of his imaginings, wishes and wakeful dreaminess.
"Dryad of the trees,"
"Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,"
"Tasting of Flora and the country-green"
"Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."
Throughout this epic poem, Keats repeatedly uses imagery. Every sentence contains a beautiful image.
This whole poem is told through 1st Person Point-of-view.
P.S.
You first introduced me John Keats and this poem in grade 10. This is the poem that inspired me to write poetry. Thank you. By and by, you are an exceptional English teacher.
P.S.S.
(I mean it.)
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tardy Methods of Development. (I hope three examples is enough)
Cause and Effect:
My uncle weighs seven hundred pounds, consequently, he fell through the floorboards. It was a hot summer day, and the maple wood supporting the second story of our Victorian home seemed to be as fatigued as my Mother and I. He was just sitting - as per usual - and CRACK! The floorboards refused to sustain his mass. He fell onto the kitchen floor, still sitting in the Laz-E-Boy he seemed to live within. He blinked twice...and waddled outside.
Comparison and Contrast:
His eyes were wide. Wide; full of imaginings and unlived dreams. The possessed a deadly calm..a serenity much like the still waters of the brook they stood beside. His eyes were the lightest of blues, almost transparent, not white, clear - as if one could peer endlessly into the depths of their hollows like the cold, still stream. She gazed into his orbs, peered deeply, sighed...and noticed: his eyes were too still..almost..calmly vacant. The brook took her view and she noted in all its steadiness it had a fierce movement neath the misleading surface, endlessly flowing in infinite directions with undefinable potential. And she looked into his eyes..his blue, blue eyes..and saw only stillness, unlike the manic brook.
Analogy:
Margarita waited on the train, full of lonely strangers. She avoided eye contact with all as was her cultures frosty custom. She waited, and waited. Sitting stiffly. An elderly gentleman sat across from her. His eyes were lowered to his polished heels. She decided to spend the long ride doodling this and that. She reached into her bag and her grip rested upon not her journal, but an old nectarine she had forgotten to remove. She wrinkled her nose yet, removed the fruit from her bag for bored inspection. It was wrinkled, withered and past its prime. It had seen fruition and now was decomposing. The elderly gentleman was looking at her with amused curiosity. She smiled nervously at him and shoved the fruit back into her bag. With a nod at the elderly gentleman he refocused his eyes upon his unmoving feet. Her mouth twitched as she peered at the elderly gentleman's gnarled hands and realized humans too succumb to the life cycle of a fruit. We seeds are planted, we grow with careful attention and care. Those who do not get watered wither, those who are treated with love flourish and bud. We ripen as children, too young to yet enjoy the full flavour of self and carry out growth. Slowly we reach our peak of juicy mid life when we are in full health and fruition. Then, if we are not consumed or lost in a heavy gale of trouble we too start to decompose. Our bodies start to rot with age. Shrivel with time, shrink and grow soft. Margarita exchanged a hearty smile with the elderly gentleman. She was filled with a steady elation. She welcomed age, for the fruit when fully decomposed releases itself into the earth and allows other fruit to flourish.
My uncle weighs seven hundred pounds, consequently, he fell through the floorboards. It was a hot summer day, and the maple wood supporting the second story of our Victorian home seemed to be as fatigued as my Mother and I. He was just sitting - as per usual - and CRACK! The floorboards refused to sustain his mass. He fell onto the kitchen floor, still sitting in the Laz-E-Boy he seemed to live within. He blinked twice...and waddled outside.
Comparison and Contrast:
His eyes were wide. Wide; full of imaginings and unlived dreams. The possessed a deadly calm..a serenity much like the still waters of the brook they stood beside. His eyes were the lightest of blues, almost transparent, not white, clear - as if one could peer endlessly into the depths of their hollows like the cold, still stream. She gazed into his orbs, peered deeply, sighed...and noticed: his eyes were too still..almost..calmly vacant. The brook took her view and she noted in all its steadiness it had a fierce movement neath the misleading surface, endlessly flowing in infinite directions with undefinable potential. And she looked into his eyes..his blue, blue eyes..and saw only stillness, unlike the manic brook.
Analogy:
Margarita waited on the train, full of lonely strangers. She avoided eye contact with all as was her cultures frosty custom. She waited, and waited. Sitting stiffly. An elderly gentleman sat across from her. His eyes were lowered to his polished heels. She decided to spend the long ride doodling this and that. She reached into her bag and her grip rested upon not her journal, but an old nectarine she had forgotten to remove. She wrinkled her nose yet, removed the fruit from her bag for bored inspection. It was wrinkled, withered and past its prime. It had seen fruition and now was decomposing. The elderly gentleman was looking at her with amused curiosity. She smiled nervously at him and shoved the fruit back into her bag. With a nod at the elderly gentleman he refocused his eyes upon his unmoving feet. Her mouth twitched as she peered at the elderly gentleman's gnarled hands and realized humans too succumb to the life cycle of a fruit. We seeds are planted, we grow with careful attention and care. Those who do not get watered wither, those who are treated with love flourish and bud. We ripen as children, too young to yet enjoy the full flavour of self and carry out growth. Slowly we reach our peak of juicy mid life when we are in full health and fruition. Then, if we are not consumed or lost in a heavy gale of trouble we too start to decompose. Our bodies start to rot with age. Shrivel with time, shrink and grow soft. Margarita exchanged a hearty smile with the elderly gentleman. She was filled with a steady elation. She welcomed age, for the fruit when fully decomposed releases itself into the earth and allows other fruit to flourish.
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