Billy Collins goes Keats hunting in Rome . . .
Rome in June
by: Billy Collins
There was a lot to notice that morning
in the Church of Saint Dorothy, virgin martyr--
a statue of Mary with a halo of electric lights,
a faded painting of a saint in flight,
Joseph of Copertino, as it turned out,
and an illustration above a side altar
bearing the title "The Musical Ecstasy of St. Francis."
But what struck me in a special way
like a pebble striking the forehead
was the realization that the simple design
running up the interior of a church's dome
was identical to the design on the ceiling
of the room by the Spanish Steps
where Keats had died and where I
had stood with lifted eyes just the day before.
It was nothing more than a row
of squares, each with the carved head
of a white flower on a background of blue,
but all during the priest's sermon
(which was either about the Wedding at Cana
or the miracle of the loaves and fishes
as far as my Italian could tell)
I was staring at the same image
that the author of Hyperion had stared at
from his death bed as he was being devoured by tuberculosis.
It was worth coming to Rome
if only to see what supine Keats was beholding
just before there would be no more Keats,
only Shelley, not yet swallowed by a wave,
and Byron before his Greek fever,
and Wordsworth who outlived Romanticism itself.
And it pays to lift the eyes, I thought outside the church
were a man on a bench was reading a newspaper,
a woman scolding her child,
and the heavy sky, visible above the narrow streets
of Trastevere, was in the process
of breaking up, showing segments of blue
and the occasional flash of Roman sunlight.
Again, no brain power tonight. I hope to feel human by tomorrow, but there are no guarantees.
I love Collins' narrative in today's poem, him standing in the room where Keats died of tuberculosis. There are few places I've visited in my life that hold the same sort of sacred energy for me. Some churches--Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City, in particular. Some historic landmarks--Pearl Harbor in Hawaii nearly destroyed me. Some places attached to writers I admire--the root cellar of Roethke House in Saginaw felt like I was breathing poetry. The very air in these spaces seems sacred.
But then there are ordinary sacred spaces, as well. For me, tonight, recovering from some long days of grading and schoolwork, my couch feels pretty damn sacred. Plus, my puppy is next to me, nudging my hand with her nose.
Saint Marty can give thanks for that.
