Ode to a Nightingale

This poem chose me.

We had encountered one another several times over the past few years, but our meetings were always brief and trivial. Until this month.

In a spell of procrastination, I came across a brilliant recitation of "Ode to a Nightingale" (Benedict Cumberbatch reading) and upon listening, was absolutely struck by the gorgeous language, imagery, and subject. Not to mention how the poem resonated with something deep within me.

Hokey. I know. But nevertheless, completely true. The poem tugs on all my heartstrings and takes my breath away. A perfect match.

Then I read Denise Levertov's To Stay Alive (That's another story of words reaching out and punching me in the gut. But I'll save that for later). In section vi of Part I, she speaks about her relationship with language, mentioning that "Ode to a Nightingale"was the first and only poem she ever memorized:

"Learned--not for the first time--my 'roots in the
19th century' put me

                                 out of touch.

Born in the '20's, but a late child, my parents' memories pivoting on their first meeting, Constantinople, 1910, and returning into the '90's. Reading, I went straight from Grimm and Andersen to the 19th-century novel. Until the war--1939--there was a muffin-man who came by in foggy winter dusks, tea-time, ringing his bell, his wares balanced on his head according to the mysteries of his trade as if Dickens were still alive--

The 'Ode to a Nightingale' was the first and only poem I ever learned by heart. Thus, when I wrote, translating, 'purged of legend,' the reader's thought was of Stalin, while my intention was something more graphic than the literal 'cured'--

and again when I said the sun approached

'to study the flower,' the reader--

                                                  to whom I would give

                                                  all that arms can hold, eyes

                                                  encompass--

alas, thought of a tedious process,

grade-points, term-papers--while I had meant 'study--e.g.,

                             I study your face intently

                                     but its secret eludes me,'

                     or, 'he took her hand and studied

                     the strong fingers, the veins,

                     the curious ring.'"


~Denise Levertov, To Stay Alive Part I - iv

It's an intriguing set of poems, and highly recommended.

Anyway... I was inspired to memorize "Ode to a Nightingale." As a way of following in Levertov's footsteps, I suppose.

And I've finished. It was a magnificent process. Some stanzas came more easily that others... "Darkling I listen, and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death." Some were very difficult. Like stanzas four and five. Too many flower names. The words feel absolutely marvelous as they roll off the tongue. Sometimes the meaning doesn't have to matter--just the sounds of the verse itself. 

Through memorizing, I learned more about the poem--its nuances and meaning--and about myself. About how I memorize, and why I like the text so much. I feel like "Ode to a Nightingale" is a very close friend.

_________________

Here's a recording of my recitation (all from memory, I promise)

Ode to a Nightingale ~ John Keats

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,	5
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.	10
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!	15
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:	20
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,	25
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.	30
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,	35
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.	40
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;	45
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.	50
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,	55
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.	60
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path	65
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.	70
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades	75
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?	80