John Keats: 1795 – 1821

I was having an mild attack of ‘what’s the point of all of this anyway?’ over the week-end. not sobriety per se, but all of it. you know. life, the washing up, any human endeavour.

and so this is for me but thought you might also like to file it under In Case Of Existential Emergency in your mental poetry tool box.

you can hear Mary Oliver read it here, if you like. have a lovely Monday! Prim xx


I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

So why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.