There’s a poetic exercise to write a poem inspired by a piece of art. I chose Joseph Severn’s painting of John Keats listening to a nightingale on Hampstead Heath, north London, England.
There’s also a poetic exercise to modify a published poem or start with favorite lines. Another poet had mentioned writing a paper on Ode to a Grecian Urn, by John Keats. From the ode, I selected a choice of its best lines, phrases, and words to fit the painting.
Thou still ... of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
... the spirit ...
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
When old age shall this generation waste,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty ..."
With re-reading and re-writing, over and over, I wrote the following, a poem in progress.
Song of the Nightingale Painting
Stilled in quietness, a poet's inspirational moment in time, A poetically divine visual tale, a tale Keats put to rhyme; An Ode to the Nightingale singing its melody for us to hear, Forest spirits playing nature's symphony into the poet's ear. A fair youth in meditation beneath whispering trees, He hears the still wind, through still painted leaves, Happy trees in summer's warmth with leaves that cannot shed, Our seasons change to winter's grey, you stay green instead. I flow into the silent scene, teasing eternity out of thought, We mortals observe for a time, immortal time for us bought; The poet enjoys youth, forever young with lustrous eyes, For us after time, youth grows pale, specter-thin, and dies; For future generations you are a thing of beauty, a joy forever, Here—"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," they are as one together.
For reference, following is the first draft, the starting point.
Stilled in quietness, a poet within a moment of slow time, A visual tale that's sweetly divine, a tale he put to rhyme. The nightingale's silent melody, heard sweetly in the poet's ear, Forest spirits playing nature's symphony, how to us they do endear, Fair youth caught in composition beneath the listening trees, You are immortal, always there, never from earth to leave, Silent form, dost tease eternity out of thought, When in old age, no further time, can be bought, Happy trees always in summer's warmth with leaves that cannot shed We move on through seasons: autumn and winter's cold, instead. The poet forever sharp and forever young in youth to be enjoyed, But, we live in times that are good and not, this we cannot avoid, And you shall remain a thing of beauty, for us a joy forever, Where "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," they are as one together.
Getting a poem to a completed stage is a process. The more I like the poem, the more reading and writing it gets until every word is my best word, in the best location.
Live like you're in the movies 