It happened a few years back; to be precise, in March 2009. I was living in the eternal city of Rome during my studies. Rome is today one of the most important tourist destinations of the world, due to the incalculable immensity of its archaeological and artistic treasures, as well as for the charm of its unique traditions, the beauty of its panoramic views, and the majesty of its magnificent “villas”. One day my friend Fr Sabu Mannada, writer and artist, came to Rome with an intention of visiting the major attractions of the city. As we were close friends, I accompanied him. After our visit to the Colosseum, Maria Maggiore, Pantheon, Fontana di Trevi etc., we went to see the pyramid of Cestius which is another attraction in Rome. The pyramid was most likely built between 18 and 12 BC. It is located on the way to the Basilica of St Paul and there is a Protestant Cemetery, also known as ‘Englishmen’s Cemetery’, close to this pyramid.
As soon as we got there, it started to rain. But it was just a drizzle. So we thought of continuing our walk alongside the cemetery wall. The tall wall had several small and big cracks which gave some view to the tombs on the other side of the wall. It was, indeed, irritating to walk in bad weather. Slowly we lost interest. I peeped through the cracks to get distracted from the displeasure of walking in the rains. My eyes stuck on a wording on a particular tomb. I thought it was familiar to me. Yes, it was true! ‘Here lies one whose name was writ in water!’
I could remember that it was the wording engraved on the tomb of the English Romantic poet John Keats. How come the tomb of an English poet here in Italy? I decided to enter into the cemetery and have a close look into the tomb and the wording. But unfortunately it was closed. It was a holiday. I returned. Keats, tomb, the poems I learned during my schooling… my mind went restless with these thoughts.
In the evening I came back to the Hostel run by the Oblates of Virgin Mary (Oblati di Maria Vergine) in via Casilina. It was my residence during my 5 years of doctoral studies there in Rome. As soon as I entered my room, I started searching for John Keats in Google. I started reading about him.
John Keats was the last of the Romantic poets and the one who died very young too! He spent his last months in Rome. I wanted to know more about him. With an increased interest and enthusiasm I continued reading.
On arrival in Italy, Keats moved into a villa on the Spanish Steps in Rome. It has become the Keats–Shelley Memorial House museum today. Keats displayed increasingly serious symptoms of tuberculosis. Regardless of the care from Severn and Dr. James Clark, his health rapidly deteriorated. The first months of 1821 marked a slow and steady decline into the final stage of tuberculosis. Keats was coughing up blood and covered in sweat. Severn who nursed him devotedly, writes:
“Keats was completely trembling. I knew that he was dying. He said, “Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don’t be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.” I lifted him up in my arms and he gradually sank into death, so quiet, that I still thought he slept. It was 23rd of February 1921. John Keats died in Rome at the age of 25!”
He died in Rome; therefore the funeral must also be there. I continued reading. ‘His body was buried in the city’s Protestant Cemetery. The tomb stone had the epitaph: This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these Words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone: Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water. 24 February 1821. Clark, his friend, saw to the planting of daisies on the grave, saying that Keats would have wished it. “In the old part of the graveyard, barely a field when Keats was buried here, there are now umbrella pines, myrtle shrubs, roses, and carpets of wild violets.’
Yes, what I saw was indeed the tomb of John Keats! “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter”, wrote Keats! It was also the cemetery of P. B. Shelley, the great author of the classic poems such as “Ozymandias”, “Ode to the West Wind”, “To a Skylark”, etc.
I founded out the opening timing of the cemetery from the website. I reached there much earlier. First I went to the tomb of John Keats. I read repeatedly the wording: Here lies one whose name is writ in the water.
Then I went to the tomb of Shelley and spent some time there too. I looked around. A huge cemetery with tombs everywhere! Not a single living being there. All were people whose names were written in water. Washed away even before completing the writing! The water on which it was tried to write also might have flowed off or dried up.
The statue if the angel of Grief or the Weeping Angel also is in this cemetery. It is an 1894 sculpture by William Wetmore Story for the grave of his wife Emelyn Story. Its full title bestowed by the creator was The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life.
When the beloved dies, what else one can do other than weeping over the altar of one’s life? One becomes the angel of grief. Is there any one has not become a weeping angel at least once in his or her life?
Some say that death is the only unchanging reality. In a way it is partially true. Everything changes. Trees, flowers, mountains, snow etc. man and animals, everything changes. Death alone, without changing, follows everyone. All are those whose names are written in water. Let us also remember that the world and its desires pass away (I Jn 2,17).
However, when I stand at the tomb of my beloved father at Mar Sleeve Church Cemetery, Malayinchipara and at the tomb of my much-loved sister at Lalam old church cemetery no. 329, what comes to my mind is not of those people whose names are written in water, rather of the people whose names are firmly written in the hearts; in the hearts of their beloved people. On arriving at these tombs, all, including me, become weeping angels.
Is there anyone among us who has not wept over the memories of the departed at least once in life time? Weeping angel might be a state of life which we have already grown into or a state of life yet to grow into.
Written by Fr Lincoln George Kadooparayil mcbs
Translated by Fr. Jaymon Mulappanchery mcbs