Ode to Pysche John Keats

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even unto thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
'Mid hush'd cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no globe, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyte,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,

I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding glowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!

Ode to Psyche seems not as widely liked as his others but one of my favourites. I really identify with his struggle for growth. I wanted to highlight the best bits, but it's all good. I should put more thought into this later on.

Screw later, i'll do it now.

Nature inspires me in such intense ways, i can't keep up with my thought patterns. Walking through the country here everything almost forms into ideas as i watch it. Some things i photography because i can't leave them there, i don't want to forget them nature is so astounding. Especailly autumn, not yet sure how to use what my eyes see, but i know they can be formed into something new. I wish i could write down half the things i think and speak. His words create such vivid understanding of the mind when it is indulging in mind loosening substances. Beautiful. I think if I'd known him I'd fall deeply in love with his mind.

Autum Walk

Rather be here writing than there whithering.

Dreaming

Moonlit the beach damp, sand cold and softly sunken stood awaiting for the rising tide.No feelings of panic, an awareness of the bodies and their old familiar faces standing spread around the shore. Turn to look upon them and slowly the water laps up and engulfs body and mind. To the sea gazing now, head faced down into the water. Blue, clear and gentle it swept with it, no loss of breath, no fear or concern for loss of life. Stillness is felt as the water surrounding seems to ease and envelope into safety. The sensation of surprise fills the mind, no one comes, and no one helps. Is help needed at all? Head lifts out suddenly. Nudity becomes apparent, again no one around seems to notice the feelings of inadequacy. Continue to forget this awareness and walk on. Surrounded again by familiar faces in the night, comforting a stranger and begin to apologise. Someone asks, "have you done something wrong?” Consider this question. Holding a deflating globe, throw it aside and attempt to catch the past. A friend arm in arm with her younger ego, embracing the self old and new. Questioning where do I fit, with whom do I belong.

Stop chasing others, focus on the self and face the feelings inside you.

Hands that age with beauty, i remember tracing the veins that held us. In her arms was safety, wrapped up in woollen blankets and tenderly we were loved. Walking through life she guides our eyes and minds to the beauty that the world holds for us. Every word she speaks adorning our young and curious minds with confidence, wisdom, passion and peace all perfect and precious gifts. Walking through grave yards subtlety she spoke of life, reading out the inscriptions and steadily revealing the briefness of time till she too would be gone. “When i die ... surround me with flowers.” In childish innocence, I spoke out in disbelief. “But you are not old, you cannot die.” Forever she should remain, never old or sick, the concept of loss seemed unreal to me. It is only right that in woodlands she found her resting place, among the blue bells, aging trees and travelling rivers a place to which we would visit bringing a comfort to us all.

Gingerly my writing roots will show...

Thinking back to Aberystwyth it's coastal views, student pasted shores and vomit stained streets, the seas fermented waves hitting hard against a distant Victorian dream. It's land wrecked and ruined at the hands of student culture, as if to remind us we are but mortals and natures fury will reclaim and engulf the gifts we have abused.

I speak of this town as if it had no lessons to teach me, of what i was and what i should be. Was it there i began to awaken from my innocent distractions and empty drunk pursuits. The drink on my lips, dribbling and poisoning this conciousness. Revealing my unthankful body and releasing me of charge aas unseen i drift away into an unhappy state. Anger and fear burn deep inside me and bitter flickers out across my once softened mouth. Loved ones bare this seething unrest and excuse it for an alcoholic twist to my otherwise untarnished soul. What little they know of what awaits inside, we blame the liquor for a last grasp of that Capricorn. But truly we understand the awakening disease that plagues are quiet thoughts, it wishes to have justice, to be granted respect for the innocent inside that was deprived of its rightfully childish imperfections.

From my window i cannot see terrace houses of multicoloured confidence and the flinted South Beach stones. Now there are vast spaces of green, dying apple trees, mounds of rubbish yet to be burned and numerous motored vehicles, x-army, racing, trucks, trailers and containers. My static walls allowing the howls of unheeded dogs to pass through them, no sound goes unheard.

Inside this metal box, old, patched and quietly rotting under foot i sit wondering about what lies beyond, warning sensations rise calling for us to leave this sluice that draw us ever nearer to things better avoided.

Is life so real and bitter?