My Imagination is a Monastery and I am its Monk

—John Keats




Wintering in golden years,

Keats ditched the pen and donned the cloth.

He made good use of his time on this planet,

singing the co-ordinates of the sublime:

grief, truth, beauty; head-heart deep with love.

Torn. Tenacious. No filter! That’s what I like about him.

So, when Wordsworth was dubbed

the doyen of English verse,

he revered J.K. the way Ali regarded Frazier.

And in the twilight (when Fanny

joined the nunnery) ‘Dear Darkling, he wrote,

I’ve had it! I do not care a straw.

I’m going to become a monk.’

And He did!