I See You

An ode to John Keats Ode to a Nightingale.

        The wind ran through the trees softly, just enough to ruffle the branches and leaves. He felt the sun on his face and was surprised to be at peace in such a trying moment. He was no stranger to challenge but hadn’t always handled it all that well. Sometimes the weather isn’t quite so nice as to facilitate the kind of internal peace he was experiencing now. So, he sat under the tallest tree he could find and reveled in it. These are the truest moments of our lives.

          He took out a pen, and a piece of paper. He had no idea what to write about but knew that it would overflow when that pen hit the page like it always tended to do. He touched the tip of the pen to his temple and closed his eyes, searching for Hippocrene in his mind, hoping that he could drink from that great fountain that had inspired so many poets before him.

          To locate the fountain was no option for him, but luckily, he had the same springs in his mind that brought forth similar inspirations naturally. To invoke the muse was of no great necessity because it lived in his chest. But here in the woods he could become more in tune with it. And so, he wrote.

          He wrote about life and love, beauty and tragedy. It was easy for him because these were the things that his life had always produced. He wrote about them because it was easier for him to put them on paper than to keep them in the recesses of his mind. He wrote because he had to, just as most poets do.

          As he opened his eyes he saw something that was not there, but inspiration manifests itself in funny shapes. He saw a girl with pale blue eyes, and flowing blonde hair. She raised the corners of her lips as she met his gaze. And she held out her hand and curled the tips of her fingers as she beckoned him forward. And so, he ran to her the only way he knew how. He spilt ink on the page as he furiously transcribed her being as he searched for words that would do her justice.

          And this was how he wrote. He wrote like he was trying to pull something out of his soul, out of his mind. He wanted the world to see what only he could, and so he wrote with desperation as he frantically and endlessly attempted to show them. He wasn’t crazy, but he wrote like he was, as most poets do.

          I read his words, and though I am worlds away, I still hear the nightingale and feel his desperation. I make no claim to understand his visions, or to see clearly that girl, but so far removed, I do think he was talking about you because I feel love in his descriptions. I feel centralized, passionate, and desperate love.

          So, I close my eyes and search for Hippocrene in my mind because I have not the same springs as he. But like him, I too see my inspiration form just beyond my closed eyelids. And I open them as tentatively as he. And before my eyes I see something that isn’t there. I see a girl with pale blue eyes and short brown hair. And she doesn’t raise the corners of her lips at me because she smiles with her whole mouth, up to her eyes that glow with the warmth. She holds out her hand to me and curls the tips of her fingers as she beckons me forward.

          I see you. And though you are not here you remain my inspiration. And I finally understand what he meant and felt when he frantically transcribed her being. And so, though I am not crazy, I write like I am, as most poets do.