good idea: ode to a poet

Naturally, many of us celebrate the universal holiday known as Halloween (All Hallow’s Eve to those of us who know a thing or two about etymologies), and some of you may join in the celebrations dedicated to the lesser evil, known as Harvest Fest (prior to the growth of the Catholic Church), lasting the duration of the autumnal season.

Whether it’s ghoulish costumes and frightful accents you crave, combined with bonbons galore (that are to be dropped into a pillow sack upon mentioning your ceremonial “Trick-or-treat”) and candy apples (a delectable treat for all ages; though, I prefer caramel), or a more Puritanical approach to appreciating the generosity of Mother Nature in the forms of maize, potatoes, gourds, and other such crops, it is with a humble disposition that I enlighten you with regard to October 31st's celebratory matters.

Halloween, in fact, though its history runs deep, shares its day with the birth date of one of the foremost poets of England’s Romantic era, beginning in the mid-1800s. The inspiration leading to Romanticism (and I’m not referring to the dreamy, impractical, passionate, tender, amorous, adoring, tender, starry-eyed love you have for another being that forces you to trip over raised portions of the sidewalk, harbor butterflies in your stomach, have a smile wider than that of the Cheshire Cat , and utter the most disjointed ramblings ever concocted, rather I impart unto you the complexity of an impressive movement within the realm of artistic and literary intelligence that took flight with the onset of England’s Industrial Revolution), in itself, promoted a surge of grand poets—one of whom, is the honorable John Keats (b. 31 Oct. 1795; canonized poet, and beholder of an apothecary license), the man who taught us that Beauty is Truth, and Truth is Beauty (see Letters, To Benjamin Bailey).

I shall permit you to formulate your own opinions regarding Keats, by going here to take a gander at some of his works, and a by leaving you with a few parting thoughts: though Keats’ prominence came posthumously, he influenced other such great poets as Alfred Lord Tennyson, befriended the likes of Percy Bysshe Shelley, mastered the unmistakable ode, had a knack for undeniable imagery and sensibly exquisite word choice, and managed to make his way into the novels of many at-the-time-contemporary American authors and other such pop culture entities of the 20th and 21st centuries.

So, whether it's the Harvest or the Ghastliness you celebrate this cool, crisp day, perhaps you might embrace poetic license and craft an ode or jingle on behalf of Keats. Even a 'raise the roof' or a 'woot woot' would suffice--I'm sure the man would get the gist, and perhaps even 'holler' back.


Here are some of my favorite lines:

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

from La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad

The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

from Ode to a Nightingale

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;

from Ode on a Grecian Urn

good thought: let's talk politics

In light of the current presidential and vice-presidential debates (and town meeting), some of my finest scholars offered up commentary from the peanut gallery, known as our classroom--not bad for a Friday:

This brings me to Palin who is apparently against abortion in all cases even in those of rape, and incest. Why is this? Her religious convictions are that strong? Is it an overall lack of logic and intellect on her part? Mrs. I'm-not-so-sure-what-a-VP-does who really has taken this circus act out of the carnivals and into the big tent.

The reason we went from a surplus under Clinton to a deficit under Bush is that Bush is horribly retarded.

We don't need terrorists to take down the country; it's self-imploding just fine on its own.

North Stonington: B.F. Clyde's

And with the first days of October comes along my jovial acceptance of autumnal bliss. Still mingling my flip-flops with khakis and Eddie Bauer knit cardigans; I find a more contented stride in my saunter as I parade around my selected oversized coffee mug for the day on my not-so-urban inner-city campus. I do not reside in conurbation, yet the metropolis is rather sprawling and eco-friendly.

With the changes in climate, ensues a transformation of the self. As the chlorophyllic leaves of summer proliferate into gatherings of vibrant burgundy and cherry reds, gold and rustic yellows, and carroty and ginger oranges, the soul cannot help but to crave the mild sense of urgency the blustering wind begets. Ah, fall.

Our senses turn keen:

We smell the autumn woods, the pumpkin spice or sprig of cinnamon in our coffee.

We see the effervescent foliage as it slowly emerges and lines each and every road.

We feel the brisk wind and the gentle chill that will soon immobilize us come winter.

We hear the jubilant shouts of children and the rustle of leaves during afternoon recess.

We taste the harvest and the apples…mmm, apples.



I don’t know about you, but I find apples and their byproducts to satiate just about any craving possible. Not only are apples a delicious commodity naked, oh no friends, that’s just the very beginning, but think of candy apples, and caramel apples. How the sweetly hardened sugars form like molten lava over the curved body of the apple. Imagine apple butter spread, apple crisp, apple pie, apple cider doughnuts, and, yes, apple cider—hot or cold. Perhaps my nostalgic fondness for industrious machinery increases my desire for these tasty delights. I mean, have you ever seen a traditional cider press at work? I have.

Sigh.

I think I have been misplaced; I am designed to have lived during the ’20s, ‘30s, and ‘40s. Craftsmanship. Good, honest work. Literary explosion. Expatriates. Whiskey. Speakeasies. The Charleston. War. Economic Boom. The Great Depression. Fedoras. The perfect balance of the great American paradox.

And, it’s all based on apples. Yeah. How do you like them apples?