Movie about poet Keats opens today

Apparently, Jane Campion, the director of kinescopic entertainment best know for The Piano, is opening today her latest, entitled the Strawberry Statement.

No, wait, that is entirely incorrect. Where are my notes? (shuffle, shuffle) Ah, yes. Here.

Jane Campion’s Bright Star, a movie starring John Keats and Fannie Brawne…I’m sorry, a movie about English Poet John Keats and Fannie Brawne is opening today in theaters in this area. It sounds like it will be very good, and I recommend you see it.

In honor of this event, I am re-re-posting what may be the only undiscovered fragment of poetry by Keats. The ms. was found in the sixth sublevel of the extensive Vrzhu archives. Written on foolscap, this unfinished draft bears a remarkable similarity to Keats’ Ode To Psyche. Since there is no indication of the date, and we have been unsuccessful at determining the date of composition by other means, we can only speculate on it’s place in Keats’ oeuvre. Is it an earlier, unsuccessful poem that he later cribbed from to write Ode To Pysche? Or was it written after that ode in attempt to change and expand the subject? We must also mention that there has been speculation that Keat’s frenemy, Charles Armitage Brown, is responsible for this work. Analysis of the handwriting has been inconclusive. The hand appears to be Keats’ own, but certain marks and loops and other uncertainties make it impossible to rule out a clever, indeed brilliant, forgery.

We leave it to you, the reader, to judge.

Ode to the Accordion

O Accordion!  Hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
     By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
     Even into thine own squeeze-boxèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
     The strapped accordion with awaken'd eyes?
I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
     And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
     In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
     Of leaves and tremblèd blossoms, where there ran
          A brooklet, scarce espied:

'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
     Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
He lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
     Arms embraced an accordion new;
     His lips mov'd not, but had not bid adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still to play a Polka number
     At tender eye-dawn of Tyrolean love.
          The winged boy I knew;
     But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
          His Accordion true!

O German born and loveliest vision far
     Of Terpishore’s faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Banjo or torso’d Guitar,
     Or Bagpipes, amorous wheeze-drones of northlands high;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
     Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
Nor dirndl’d-choir to make delicious moan
     Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no Pilsner sweet
     From foaming beer stein teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
     Of pale-mouth'd Polka dreaming.

O brightest!  though too late for antique vows,
     Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
     Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
     From gay pieties, thy lucent bellows,
     Fluttering among the Czech-Slovak fellows,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
     So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
          Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy keyboard sweet
     From swingèd tempos teeming;
Thy reeds, thy grill, thy buttons bass, thy heat
     Of pale-mouth'd Polka dreaming.

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