beginning of things

From mid-October to mid-December of last year, 2010, I went on what I referred to as the JKP: the John Keats Pilgrimage. I later thought about changing the name of my trip to the John Keats Sojourn, to make reference to his famous poem, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’ (the poem is at the end of the post if you’re interested in reading it), but unlike the soldier in the poem, I was not searching for beauty in a dark place, I was continually finding beauty in an already beautiful places. So I decided to keep the name JKP. Because it was, honestly, a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage with a trip to Florence thrown in to make some work about the pilgrimage, but a pilgrimage none-the-less.

The definition of pilgrimage is: a journey of a pilgrim; especially : one to a shrine or a sacred place. The definition implies a journey that has spiritual significance. For me Keats’ house, the house he died in, his grave…these are all sacred places. This journey was as much about gathering information and creating work as it was about connecting to the kosmos, to Keats. There is something sacred about Keats work for me, something truly beautiful and therefore eternal in his best poetry. So he has become in many ways like a saint to me, a creative saint. Through his work, I have found a deeper understanding of beauty, and a more intense inspiration than I ever imagined possible. So for me, this trip was about trying to connect with my own hero, my own saint, so that I may gain a better understanding of him and his poetry, thereby informing my own work in a more powerful way. It was also, I’m beginning to understand now, more importantly about trying to honor and ultimately thank him.

So, why Keats? I honestly don’t know for sure. I have a lot of guesses and feelings, but nothing clear, nothing definitive. Last spring I saw the movie about his and Fanny Brawnes love affair: Bright Star, and was instantly moved. Then I ordered a book of his complete poems, and read ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’, and truly fell in love with the poet. Something just clicked inside me, and has been clicking since. I couldn’t get enough of his poetry, of learning about him, about everything surrounding Keats. His best poems are so transparent…it’s never like I’m reading a poem by him, I’m simply in it, in the landscape and emotion and beauty. The poems are so in this world, yet at the same time so beyond it, into the next life, into some faerie land, into the kosmos, all at once. And Keats’ whole life…there is an element of the sublime just in the story of his life, let alone in his poetry. I don’t know why, but I know that it’s Keats.

Over the next few weeks, or really however long it takes, I’m going to write about the JKP and John Keats’ life and poetry and post it for all of you (along with regular, goofy, and fun posts, so you all don’t get Keatsd-out). Please feel free to comment and give your thoughts, critiques, and ideas. My plan is to, after I’m all done, take the posts and bind them in a book, along with photos and work from and about the journey. Thanks for reading!

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.