In this extraordinary new collection by distinguished poet
Christopher Howell, the opening poem presents us with a spiritual
paradox that will echo throughout its pages. The speaker remembers
an earlier time of happiness, freedom, and a certain innocence. The
poem closes with: And if he remembers now he is in love, which is
the soul's condition, and alone because that is how we live. "How
we live" is the book's major inquiry; its illustration, the poems'
major achievement. How do we live, in our dailiness, in our loves,
our private and global wars? And, in the face of unbearable grief,
how can we live? Keats When Keats, at last beyond the curtain of
love's distraction, lay dying in his room on the Piazza di Spagna,
the melody of the Bernini Fountain "filling him like flowers," he
held his breath like a coin, looked out into the moonlight and
thought he saw snow. He did not suppose it was fever or the body's
weakness turning the mind. He thought, "England!" and there he was,
secretly, for the rest of his improvidently short life: up to his
neck in sleigh bells and the impossibly English cries of street
venders, perfect and affectionate as his soul. For days the snow
and statuary sang him so far beyond regret that if now you walk
rancorless and alone there, in the piazza, the white shadow of his
last words to Severn, "Don't be frightened," may enter you.
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