PY:One whose name was writ in water

My apologies to every poet out there.I'm not doing justice to this.A poem needs polishing--like a gemstone,its beauty emerges only with a great degree of effort.A lot of thought goes into a poem.The number of syllables in every line,the sound of the words,the powerful imagery all contribute to what a poem is.While prose is merely an outburst of thoughts,poetry is perfection that's born of flawless writing and emotion.Poetry is almost always centered around the reader--and therefore it's only a good poem if it evokes extreme emotion in the reader.Poetry is never about restating the obvious--it's about taking something completely ordinary and giving a take on it that makes it so extraordinary that you wonder why you never saw it that way.

Since I'm currently incapable of all this and spending five minutes a day writing some trash that's a disgrace to poetry isn't my thing,this shall be my last poem,till I see fit to write another.When I have the time,energy and mental acuity:).Dedicated to a man I worship--well you have to wait for the name!:P

At eight,he lost his father

At fourteen,his mother

I sometimes wonder

If suffering is the precursor to beauty.

He was put into a school of medicine

Hoping he would cure people

But he was more than a physician

He was a healer of hearts,a nurturer of souls

In an era where poetry was the fad of the wealthy

He was a poet of penury,a child of destitution

His writing a glory to mankind and God

And they called this perfection driveling idiocy.

The fire of the soul can ne'er be quenched

Not by criticism,nor by poverty

It burns brighter than life itself

So he wrote,every verse a breathing beauty

Perhaps life forgot he had endured more than his share

For it inflicted more cruelty

A dying brother--one he nursed till death

Only to fall prey to disease himself

He loved a woman--Bright Star he called her

But Cupid too frowned on him

He would never know the pleasures of love

Only of the disease that would consume him

He knew his days were numbered

But his soul looked for beauty 

And saw nothing but beauty

For the soul only finds what it seeks

Suffering only seemed to bring out the divine in him

Yet oblivious to his own greatness he lamented

"I have left no immortal work behind me
If I had had time I would have made myself remember'd"

It's agony for me to read this

To know that he died this way

Having had no sense of his accomplishments

When he was arguably the greatest poet in all of history

One quarter of a century was all life saw fit to give him

Anymore and perhaps the world would be overwhelmed

I despise the ironic bitterness of destiny

In giving nothing but sorrow to the man who only gave happiness to the world.

P.S:Dedicated to John Zeus Keats,Exquisite poet of sensual imagery,Master of Odes and Most beloved romantic poet of the 19th century.A man of beauty.

The title is what he wanted for his epitaph:"Here lies One whose Name was writ in Water."

I urge you Dear Reader,to read To Autumn if you haven't already done so.It was one of the last things he wrote,knowing he would die of tuberculosis soon.Not one line,not one word in the poem betrays what he must have gone through.It breathes serenity,fruitfulness,glory and happiness in every syllable.Such is the greatness of this man.

If only he had known that he did not write in vain.I wish life had spared him the pain of that cruel delusion!