Keats: on the Necessity of Poetry

John Keats didn't live very long (1795-1821). He was twenty-six or so when he died, slowly and painfully, of tuberculosis. Treatments prescibed included alternating between bleeding the patient and giving him opium, meat, and red wine.

TB was commonly known as "consumption," because that's what tuberculosis does -- it consumes the patient, and when one of Keats's lungs hemorrhaged he was aware of what would come next, since both his mother and brother had died of TB. In fact, death surrounded Keats's childhood -- his father died in a riding accident and his apprenticeship with a surgeon, Dr. Edmondson, exposed him to the realities of disease and the relentless and inexorable manner in which death itself consumes every living thing.

This is perhaps what makes his poetry so vividly, visually, sensuously beautiful.

Ironically, instead of dwelling on death, he chose to examine what life is, and his poems are famous for their blending of sensory perceptions -- the gorgeous synesthesia of Eve of St. Agnes, always a favorite of students, is cinematic in its rich detailing of the scene. (We tend to dwell so much on the sumptuousness of the seduction scene that we forget the fact that the lovers run off into uncertainty, and in a raging storm, to boot. The poem ends with the death of the old nurse, and the monk frozen, reciting his rosary -- hardly a happy ending, by anyone's standards.)

But the poem that explains (for me, at least) Keats's view of the necessity of poetry is "A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever," which almost reads as a manifesto: here are the first two stanzas --

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast

That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

There's a third stanza, but it wanders off into an encomium on Endymion. These two seem complete in themselves, don't they? They even end with the word "die." Sounds final to me.

The first five lines are about everything that was lacking in Keats's brief life, including sweet dreams, and quiet breathing. The simple, unforced, statements here are quietly lyrical and pensively cogent. For Keats, life itself was a "thing of beauty" despite the ugliness of disease, and its translation into an abstract perception of beauty, he understood, was a constant that could never die. This idea is not new -- ars longa, vita brevis , after all -- but for Keats we sense a special poignancy and heightened response to the beauty that is life: the stakes, perhaps, were higher for him.

This gave his poetry a force that does indeed shine a light "unto our souls" and we cannot help but be caught up in the "passion poesy" that whirls him into an ecstasy, even while conscious of the brevity of its durance.

On a different note, however, I'd like to look at Keats's lines and line breaks. Horribly technical, I know, and it seems callous to poke at his beautiful verses -- but he shows us real mastery of the formation of easy-flowing lines that are to be admired and emulated. The beginning poet often is unsure or careless of how lines are broken, whether they are end-stopped or enjambed (run-ons). The beginning poet can sometimes end lines awkwardly with prepositions and thus leave lines dangling in mid air like broken coat hangers. Each line of poetry (technically a verse, but let's not confuse the issue) should have its own internal logic. The first line of Keats's poem speaks for itself: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever:" -- it's endstopped (it could be a complete thought; he could have ended the line with a period), but he ends with a colon: a signal that he is going to explain himself. "Its loveliness increases; it will never/ Pass into nothingness;" here, the enjambment (running on of the sense) forces us to keep reading this list of the attributes of beauty.

Having said that, let's perform more surgical shenanigans and try this:

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing a flowery band to bind us to the earth, spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth of noble natures, of the gloomy days, of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, some shape of beauty moves away the pall from our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon for simple sheep; and such are daffodils with the green world they live in; and clear rills that for themselves a cooling covert make 'gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake, rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: and such too is the grandeur of the dooms we have imagined for the mighty dead; all lovely tales that we have heard or read: an endless fountain of immortal drink, pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour; no, even as the trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, the passion poesy, glories infinite, haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls, and bound to us so fast that, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast, they always must be with us, or we die."

Present the same words as a piece of prose, and we see that last sentence build the glories of life, piling one upon another, upon another, which we either revel in -- or we die. That last chilling alternative strikes us hard. And so it should.