Ode on the Infinite Whole

To John Keats with apologies

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I

 Twenty-four years your name writ in water,

While forty-eight years found me hard by shore;

Just a vagabond blown like a flower

Or seed: skimming waves, wind, poetic lore.

Go back sick tide rot yourself in motion,

For he was too young to go before me,

But how can I scope such an ebbing thought?

Alas, he from Charmian sails to sea,

His love to her pledged with one notion,

To render beauty words carefully wrought.

 

II

              Not drowsy perceptions in senseless inks,

Just watchfulness and sensation itself

Created and matured as one thinks

Of grapes turning wine, aging on the shelf:

As his Indian leaf bore the written child

Of his brain, his East Indian lover,

In leopardess stealth, held magnetism

And sensation’s imperial power

In check and command for the sacred wild

Journey into his romanticism.

 
III

Yes, I suffer migraines after high mirth,

They leave my senses numb, weak and distraught;

But there is solace found often on earth

At the feet of poets and all they taught:

A paradise beckoned all my dunce dreams,

Yet the heavenly guesses left me savage;

So I bade adieu in my journey east

Finding Pallas, Zen, him—not for an age,

Gave me access and cognizance in reams,

And time to change human from senseless beast.

 

IV

Your unfinished lifetime is complete

As all that is half remains infinite;

With double years I found you dead, yet sweet

Strains of your lyrics live as holy writ;

I am too old, too old to follow you,

Too soon to leave my house unfinished

And laurel bare, with but solitude’s O

In murky suburbs of hope diminished

Beyond thought’s beauty and what is my due:

Finding your truth in the infinite whole.

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By J.T. Bleu

Tokyo, Japan 2004-First Draft, Sapporo, 2006-2-25 Second Draft