Elena

Rome, Italy

The English Literature student in me was drawn towards the bottom-right corner of the Spanish Steps on Piazza di Spagna, in which is tucked the Keats-Shelley House. There I met Elena - a poem collector and now poem creator. The library’s cool, dark stillness was solemn yet restful; it reservedly watched a frenzy of tourists trickle up and down scorching white steps. Whilst we talked, Elena dusted wooden panels and glass cases, as the museum shut up shop for the day.

Can you tell me a bit about this place?

In the early 1900s, this house - where Keats lived and died - was falling apart. They were going to knock it down to build a hotel, which we can agree would be fairly awful. So in 1903 they formed the Keats-Shelley Memorial Association. Three years later they managed to buy it, and three years after that the museum was opened. (Initially, it was not only a museum and library, but was also made to take care of the graves of Keats and Shelley at the non-catholic cemetery in Rome - it was dedicated to Keats and Shelley, but only Keats lived here.) We have this great library, which has just under 8000 books, a catalogue online, and people come here to study. We’ve done concerts, had a theatre production on our balcony, and had lots of readings.

How did you get this job?

It was a bit of a fluke! I actually grew up here in Rome, but went to England to get a degree in Fine Art and Illustration. I then discovered museums and went and did a Masters in Cultural Policy and Arts Management in Ireland. After deciding to come back home for a while, because I couldn’t do the cold weather any more, I remembered this museum because it runs a poetry competition for kids, and when I was 11 years old I won the competition! I wrote to them asking whether they had an internship. They said ‘We don’t have an internship, but would you like a job?’

We’re a small museum, so all do extra bits - with my background in design, I’m the graphic designer for the museum.

And are you interested in poetry yourself? Ah, yes! Yes, although this place made me even more passionate about it. I have this book in which I collect all my favourite poetry, and now I’ve started actually writing myself. I had a very good English teacher at school, but it wasn’t until a couple of summers ago – it was a difficult summer – there was a poem that wouldn’t leave my head. I thought maybe the way to get it out of my head was to memorise it, and it just became such a cathartic thing to repeat this poem by memory, that I started learning others, until I got into learning Shakespeare and everything. It was only through truly knowing poems and being able to have a poem for each emotion that I really got into it. When I went to the Keats house in Hampstead, I came across a book by Stephen Frye called The Ode Less Travelled. In his fun way, it teaches you how to write poetry, and that’s how I started. Now I’m getting to the point where my friend has sent me a competition, and I’m like, okay, let’s give this a shot!

What do you use as your inspiration? Do you use Rome itself?

No, actually my inspiration’s always very personal - that’s why I’ve never shared my poetry as of yet. To me, poetry is an intense form of writing. You’re trying to say exactly what you want, but in just a few words, in the best way and fitting it all in a line. It means that I have to sit there and go: okay what do I actually feel? Mine’s always rip-your-heart-out-poetry, because that’s quite literally what I’m doing.

"...poetry is an intense form of writing... It means that I have to sit there and go: okay what do I actually feel?"

What’s your favourite line of poetry or perhaps the poem you said you started by learning?

There are so many poems in my head! The poem I started with was Brown Penny by Yeats. It goes...

I said I am too young,

And then, ‘I am old enough’;

Wherefore I threw a penny

To see if I may love.

“Go and love, go and love young man,

If the lady be young and fair,”

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

Ah love, it is a fickle thing,

For there is no one who knows all that is in it,

For he would be thinking of love

For the stars had chased the sky

And... something of the moon.

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

One cannot begin it too soon.

So, after perusing letters of Byron, Shelley, Keats, Barrett Browning, Hardy and Severn, my visit was finished with Elena’s beautiful private recital, and a reminder of the precision, intensity and legacy of poetry’s art.