Alice Graves

The Keats-Shelley House

Next time you’re in Rome
be sure to visit
the Keats-Shelley House
beside the Spanish Steps

Keats died there
of consumption
in 1821
a year after he moved in

Inside you will
see his death bed
in austere surroundings

The first time I visited
I knew nothing of the
Romantics
I thought this was
a crazy bachelor pad
for Keats and Shelley

Shelley never lived in that house.
He barely knew Keats.
He and his wife Mary
lived in Rome briefly
before moving
to the Ligurian coast
where he later drowned

When Keats died
it was the custom to
burn the contents of
the house
because of contagion

So what you see in the house now
is not really the bed he died on
the rooms were decorated
by the foundation that runs the museum,
a memorial to the Romantic
British poets
who lived in Rome

But don’t be glum
this is some piece of real estate!

A few feet away
is the Barcaccia Fountain
where you can toss in
a few euro and make a wish

A little further on
is the Via Condotti
the most fashionable
shopping street in Rome

Keats chose to die
under the Roman sun
where bougainvillea and oleander
bloomed outside his window

Shelley’s death
one year later
was completely
uexpected

In his pocket
a book of poems
by Keats


Overlook Mountain

Saturday morning
air sharp and alive
like me this day
the first sun
first blue sky
after eleven days of
low languorous clouds

I drive west
to Woodstock
where I work

Overlook Mountan
rises ahead
like a Great Sphinx

I’ve never been to the top
three thousand feet
above the sea
the trail is long and steep
and my knees are aging

But I know that ancient formation
watches over us
like a new mother
observes us in and out
of the shops in town
gazes into our darkened homes
late at night
keeping close watch
as we sleep

I know these roads
like I know my own dreams
I sail around the curves
past familiar pines
holding fast to the road
Overlook mountain
holding fast
to me


Reading Tove Janssen in the Park

Two years ago
we sat on this bench
under an ancient shade oak,
and I read to you
a story by Tove Janssen.

People walked by
I looked up and nodded
while you stared ahead,
perhaps lost in the story
or just lost.

Your walking stick leaned beside you,
against the gray, decaying wood of the bench.

Reading made me feel close to you.
Even then, I could feel you drifting away,
not physically, because we were always together,
but that some ethereal part of you
was getting ready to take flight.

You once asked me if I ever cry while I write.
I didn’t answer.

Today thick clouds cover the sky
and the oak casts no shade.
Not like the sun-drenched day I read Tove Janssen to you,
my cheek resting on your shoulder.

When the story ended, we sat for a while,
watching the birds gathered on the sandbar
dive for food.


About the Author

My prose and poetry has been published in Chronogram, Ducts, Sunscripts and other publications. I was a columnist for the St. Peterburg Times and a content writer for LegalZoom.com and other web sites. My memoir, Don’t Tell Anyone: A Cult Memoir, is available on Amazon.


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