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Showing posts from November, 2009

Reaching out to Autumn

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As some devoted literary circles in some parts of the world gather to celebrate the birth anniversary of John Keats, and some out to lunch crazy enthusiasts like me will mark and cherish the very day on which the poet was born, Romantic poetry written by him would remain as fresh as the cider of Autumn. I wonder how important is it to numerically cut and dry, saying, on 'this' day was born the poet of sensuously charged lines of verse but what is of more import figuratively is that Keats is remembered as a poet and as we revisit some of those oozy opalescent lines, Keats is born, revived and reborn. Imagination once again overcomes Reality in escaping, eloping to see inwardly hoe the nightingale looks like today; or how many more fruitful years the teeming wine has added to its ethereal taste since it was first inhumed under the tip of Keats's pen. It is precisely a poet's predicament to say the preponderant with fewest words; to paint pictures on the canvas of sheer f