"coleridge" poems
Anom o ly
Non-named, never imagined much less realized
The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here
We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.
Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?
Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.
Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question, nor is good or bad. ******** Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.
I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.
First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.
From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>
Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
The root
Of ambition
Is ambivalent
There's no “one cause”
No one causes
A man
To make life decisions
In a day
It takes
Much more
For
A man to be successful
And real
With his inner-self
Accepting
The cards dealt
With the stamina
To play through
Exercising his will
With the feel
Lingering in every pore
Unsure
Of obstacles ahead
Headstrong
Through barricades
Bearing the bruises
Trampling
Over your own
Feet
Defeat
Seen in battle
But the war’s on
And the war zone
Isn’t limited
To a few
Years
Like ages 19-22
Whose to do
Worse
Who has more
Money
CARS
Clothes
And hoes
And whose vision
Is so small
To tack them
with success
All in all
And attack those
Who lack the
Wills
To move forward
And ignorantly
Attach it
With a phenomena
Of
Your unknowing
Root of ambition
Can spread
Like weeds
And weeds
Can **** ambition
Or spread
Like seeds
How many men
Dive
Head first under the influence
Or rise above
High
From the same drug
Barack Obama
Michael Phelps
William Shakespeare
Bill Clinton
Lebron James
Pablo Picasso
The Beatles
Jay-Z
Bob Marley
Conan O’Brien
Dr Francis Crick. (Nobel Prize Winner)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Salvador Dali
Victor Hugo
Kareem Abdul-Jabar
Snoop Dogg
Dr. Dre
Stephen King
Just to name a few
Maybe
Just maybe
It has nothing to do
With success
Or you.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
Said The Raven
To The Raven
Which Raven are you?
I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
And I said The Raven
Am The Raven
Of Edgar Allan Poe.
Apparently there's a rave on -
Shall we go?
Yes - let us go then you and I
As the evening is spread out
Against the sky.
But not like a patient
Etherised upon a table.
Let us like Thunderbirds
Not gentle go into this dark night.
So dressed in sable
White gloves
And whistles
They went on their way -
Not looking forward
To conversations about
Michelangelo at all.
For as we all know
Old age should rave and burn
At close of day.
And not just fizzle out.
More big shout...........................................
And rave until you fall.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Thrift Shop Confessional
Old carts squeak down re-sale aisles
"One of," "two of,"
Sometimes "three of" items
Tempting treasure-sifting shoppers,
Bargain-needing families,
Women seeking up-brand names at low-brand prices...
Our wives, followed by their husbands,
Acquiescent, but quiescently seeking
Seeking a thrift shop oasis.
A cast-off dining set beckons,
Sturdy enough, if a little battered,
To make us solemnly content to wait
Carted clothing trundling
Off to fitting rooms.
He shuffled up with a foolish grin.
"I think I'll join this convocation of
Waiting gentlemen.
My wife is a shopper...
She'll close the place down."
I moved a chair and gave some space;
Strangers become brothers in this place.
Five minutes on,
I knew he was a vet:
Army, Vietnam Nam...
"I don't like to think about it,"
Cleared his throat,
"Never can forget."
I turned to look at him.
"A little girl came running,
With her hand behind her back.
She only stood this high," he said,
And showed me with his palm her height,
"They carried grenades that way...
All of 'em...couldn't tell which ones...
Sergeant told us, 'Don't ever check...just shoot.'"
The voice trailed off....
I sat sweating in a thrift store,
Captive of my own politeness,
Half a century,
Half a planet,
Transported in his words
into a soldier's Hell.
"So I shot...
Nothing else to do."
Silence then.
A total stranger staggering
under the weight of having
Murdered his Albatross....
Of having carried this thing,
This memory,
Inside him all these years,
Of finding me,
The unsuspecting thrift shop guest
Who'd listen to his lonely tale,
Perhaps so he could earn some rest....
I, his unwitting Confessor,
Uncertain what to say,
Certain something must be said...
Certain nothing could be said...
Sat dumb, but understanding
The wisdom of confessional dividers,
The private comfort of two booths
Where prayerful exchanges
Intersperse uncertain silences,
Present in the overhanging need:
Demanding sorrowful returns,
Impending memories of sorrows...
And lonely trudgings home....
(Connections with Fr. Laurence's "Riddling confession finds but short shrift," in Romeo & Juliet, and Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner")
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
dead bodies while alive poor Porphyria
strangled by her own hair
which could be no Fairy tale ,
jabberwocky, listens
as does that famous semicolon concise;
By Ezra Pound.
creepy
innocence or infamous
we all get to sooner.
On to Popeye
"Farm Implements......"
title and poem supplied by Ashbury,
hang an albatross but don't shoot it
Mr. Coleridge,
it will hang around your neck.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
When first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.
When last along its banks I wandered,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border-minstrel led.
The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
’Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow,
Has closed the Shepherd-poet’s eyes:
Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its stedfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source;
The rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth:
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land!
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
“Who next will drop and disappear?”
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London with its own black wreath,
On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth-looking,
I gazed from Hampstead’s breezy heath.
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too art gone before; but why,
O’er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh?
Mourn rather for that holy Spirit,
Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep;
For Her who, ere her summer faded,
Has sunk into a breathless sleep.
No more of old romantic sorrows,
For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid!
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead.
2.3k
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
On a walk companioned by my Muse along the sylvan meadows
We wandered away to delightful realms in unclouded ambience
Don’t know how long I rambled warming my fancies in sunset fires
Must be for long, all lights were out, the quiet hamlet lay bathed in sleep
Above me, stood the starry firmament and the half hidden moon
Could see the vast plains stretching before me in moonlight, bare
My heart was flooded with joy, my fancies took to wings
Got drowned in Nature’s serene calm, my spirit lost in drunken ecstasy
In the gentle blowing breeze, the leaves twittered and murmured
All else was quiet and nothing disturbed the serenity of the night
But soon I knew the East wind strengthening around into a gale
And across the moon I could see stragglers of clouds moving past
I sat on a rock, lost, so lost staring into the clear night sky
Wondering how the celestial joy, made manifest by the twinkling stars
My thoughts began floating like a ship over the briny waters
And my temporal settings faded away like a cloud in the horizon
From the nearby woods, I heard the song of a lone night bird
In rising cadence, alone and aloud it fell on my rapturous ears
Was it a nightingale that poured forth that dewy delight?
Was it the same song, Keats heard long ago cascading from the woods?
With my Muse in this unearthly hour let me sit awhile in this solitary bower
To my paper, let my fancies in unbroken crystal streams flow
Wonder if I can rightly recreate the image that my thoughts enfold
How I wish, I could like Coleridge, build a pleasure dome in mid air!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 7:51 AM UTC
Tinderbox pt.1—Magic
At first,
I caught its eye
In the rolling smoke of fire
I ****** my hands
To pull it out
And speak with lighted words,
In light of brilliance,
A vital warmth,
But in the end just ashes.
And then,
The curve of silk waters
Which rushed upon and through the rocks
Wrote to me
A rich and liquid poetry
Not in bursts but subtle waves
I cupped my hands to catch its words,
But even then,
I could only hold so much
And only for so long.
Tinderbox pt. 2—the Artist
Entranced in the world
Here and beneath the moment,
In the spaces and each letter
I saw the fire, the waves of silk
Each play in their environs,
I’d grieve
At their perfection,
Running my eyes over their hilly peaks
And dreaming mine had been there.
My worlds were ugly, incomplete
Extinguished at very moment
That the two would meet
The tinderbox was fire to my hands,
My cup was rife with holes
And there, I’d thought the artist dead
Or never even alive.
In my sleep I’d hear a voice
Like Milton, Coleridge, or Shelley
A babble arresting and forcing pity
From its infantile lucidity...
I knew this thing, but killed it.
Perhaps even now, I believe in magic
Though, to pluck rain from a furied storm
Or converse with tiny sparks
That become
Something of brilliance and solemn silk
That groves were wrought from tiny seeds
Long after mere chaos
That, from it, comes a universe
and white paper is all it needs.
What awoke me was not
That there was art
But that the words had tried to say something,
Something the heart could not speak
Nor the mind would dare to reason;
It was not as much the words that made it up
But the worlds in between them.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
I'm studying real poets.
Shelley, Sandburg,
Frost, and Wordsworth.
Coleridge, Blake,
and William Butler Yeats.
Do you know why they're
considered real poets?
Because they made art,
not hashtag trends.
Wrote from Experience
with black quill pens.
Sure, they got high,
but wrote on instinct.
And The Road Not Taken doesn't
mean what you think.
They wrote about about life
and the world that they heard,
not ******* in the margins
of Microsoft Word.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.
(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)
Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.
31Aug13b
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
Pop a few Bukowskis to set the day off right
And sip a little Hemingway to keep me feeling bright
Smoking on that Ginsberg, mind is opening wide
Doing lines of Robert Louis Stevenson,
and a Hookah full of Baudelaire
Ingesting Kerouac, it feels good I swear
Coleridge into my lungs, floating on thick air
Shooting up some Burroughs, my literary affair
I begin to lose sight of reality, taking some Cocteau
Tripping with the Kesey, my life is nearly through
A final hit of Huxley as transcendence I try to pursue
But old Walt Whitman, is where I say adieu.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
Plagiarism stealthily goes on in all fields!
In research theses plagiarism is common;
In articles and novels they are caught soon!
In poetry a lot of production makes it rare
To find who has done what in any quarter!
Finding the impostors in poetry is finding
Diamond among broken glasses on sand!
So, impostors mingle with poets anywhere,
Become friends and take advantage of them!
Positive minds never think negatively here
And it becomes easy for the culprits to sway all
To indulge in their nefarious acts nonstop!
Plagiarist poets excel even bards and Browning
Consuming their brain as critics did to Coleridge!
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
Poets are bipolar--
musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked *****
Poe preferred whisky.
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did *******
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d be genius that we’d miss.
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
From across the hall, I watched her double
over Coleridge, sympathizing as she looked
up to the thin curtain filtering the street-light
universe past the pane held in hot glue.
The click-heels, car barks, ceaseless L-Train
turnstiles, tipsy choirs in cracked-door taverns,
hinges, keys on carabiners, bus hydraulics,
the wall clock, and her fingers caressing the page.
She loved a soft wind carrying birdsong
through screen doors and dowel chimes.
She used to leave her shoes lace-tangled
by the key rack until she saw glass pollen
sparkling in a caged tulip blossom.
She raised the book and sullenly whispered
the last stanza of Frost at Midnight
into the spine, wondering how anyone
could live away from impressionist-dandelion
forests, children's plastic toys in the front yard,
and church bells at every hour.
I wondered the same thing.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
I have tried here to create an Essay on Mother
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~with love, Sylvia FC
a Mother,
a GodMother,
a GrandMother,
the central figure in every family's life,
who has the quality of a professor,
the patience of an angel,
the power of Tarzan
the unique habit of keeping her family together as a united one,
with that special kind of love which we cannot see,
we as her kids can only feel it, smell the atmosphere of the cosy surrounds at home as we never could ever feel elsewhere...
East-West
at home with Mom is always the best!!
her cookies are the most delicious ones
we love to talk about her in superlatives
Mother a place to hide when we have fear or anxiety,
under Mother's wings is always a peaceful home-coming...
daughters love to write a great tribute to Her
as well as to Mothership
Some quotations from different sources I put down here:
First from the Bible:
"Honour thy mother and thy father" Bible: Exodus
"As is the mother, so is her daughter" Bible: Ezekiel
And now from other sources:
"So for the mother's sake the child was dear"
"And dearer was the mother for the child" (Samuel Taylor Coleridge 'Sonnet to a Friend Who Asked How I Felt When the Nurse First Presented My Infant Child to Me')
"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That is his" (Oscar Wilde The Importance of Being Earnest)
And the last quotation is mine:
"A Mother is the most complete human-being on earth,
the caring and loving person,
the only one to whom daughters write a greatest tribute,
the safest place to come home...
a Mother is like Home...." (Sylvia Frances Chan)
© SYLVIA FRANCES CHAN
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
From the ship he shot the great albatross,
His purpose for this we will never know.
But his mistake his shipmate’s life lost,
Yet he was cursed to journey to and fro.
Telling of the strange tragedy at sea,
Miles from his home in land of crystal ice.
A sin committed his life never free,
He transformed to become wise and nice.
This epic they say if full of symbol,
Like when Adam ate from the sinner’s tree.
When we think of our sins we should tremble,
Yet we can be spared by the savior’s creed.
The old mariner journeyed on a great quest,
And touched the heart of a wedding guest.
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
If all my words were mating calls,
And all my poems merely
The slapping of the waves by
A whale's fins to garner some attention,
If the purpose of all my work
Was only echolocation,
What answer can I make
When a listener surfaces
From the deep, calm and
Implacable, a beautiful inevitability?
What can I say when the man
I dove for comes to me
And says, Here I am,
You can stop calling now,
I will not leave.
What then, when I hold
Coleridge's flower in my hands?
What can I do now - I who have
Pressed my pen to the grindstone
For the purpose of finding him -
Now when all I know to do
Never needs doing again?
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 1:21 PM UTC
The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!
And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay
That made the breeze to blow!
Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
All in a hot and copper sky,
The ****** Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green, and blue and white.
And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so:
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 3:15 AM UTC
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Perhaps it may take a while to wake up
Perhaps you may never sleep and dream
Relaxation’s funny thing.You can or you can’t
Ever mounting stressful situations blight a day
Coming to hauntingly appear all thru the night
I try to memorise a favourite poem by heart
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration then
The rhythms of that favourite will give tempo.
Eventually the tempo will give the inspiration
Tempos will give you the medleys in your head.
Head becomes a power housing for the brain
Establish then that white light in the centre
So relax into a meditative state of mind.
I appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Meditation holds the key it links you with all
Poets of the bygone ages that you’ve read.
Like a spark of genius , you’ve come alive
Eventually you may write fifty lines of poetry
God given inspired poetry and it rhymes
In the space of a few minutes a masterpiece
Fortunately the simple gift of inspiration is free
The freedom that you hold is a key to the city
On certain good days it is the key to Xanadu.
For do you remember the dome of Kubla Khan
In Seventeen ninety seven the poet Coleridge
Noting his poem from a drug induced dream
Simply wrote this epic poem. But lost half a
Poem when a person from Porlock knocked
And interrupted the genius and he forgot lines
Reiterating the old saying dream and not make
A dream your master , think and not make
Thoughts your aim, to meet with triumph and
In disaster, treat the two imposters the same!
Onymous with the simple gift of inspiration
Never anonymous be forever simply proud.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspired by Philip.
Written November 22nd 2018.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
REMEMBERING COLERIDGE
"Ok! Can we have..."
my mind shouts
from its directorial chair
megaphone in hand.
"A MIRACLE OF RARE DEVICE
over here!"
BUT OH! THAT DEEP ROMANTIC CHASM
is still in her caravan.
"Ok...cue camera No. 2 &
where...
where are the SUNNY PLEASURE DOMES WITH CAVES OF ICE
can someone please. . .
. . .get the ****** SUNNY PLEASURE DOMES WITH CAVES OF ICE
please!
"We've got a Coleridge
moment
coming up on his next
footstep!"
"Are all you brain cells
following me!"
Memory goes through wardrobe
dressing each thought
in perfect Kubla Khan
costumes.
"Ok...cue footstep 2000 &
waitforitwaitforit....2!"
"Ok people..!" shouts my mind
"...he's going to remember the
Coleridge any second
. . .nOW!"
"Cut to...OH STILL UNRAVISHED BRIDE OF QUIETNESS!
wot...wot....cut CUT!"
"Ok...who pressed the Keats button!"
And so it is that a Keatsian personified urn
of Greek extraction
finds itself in Xanadu
as I cross the road
and almost get knocked down
by a ****** big No. 69
and a cursing cyclist
in spangled blue latex.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
I read, it seemed, a thousand books.
The looks I took through windows tall and wide
did not hide from me my sorrow and sadness felt
as I gazed upon the leafless trees outside.
The Mayor of Casterbridge did not move me once;
Othello did not touch me. The tears, the fears,
did not abate as I sat in wooden chairs;
I simply starred at winter. I did not know how blind
I was, seeing with only one half of one eye.
I'd go into the stacks to cry; a certain kind of comfort
were all the lonely books that kept me company.
No sudden symphony of enlightenment did I hear
as I leaned against the shelves, themselves my only friends.
The end seemed more near than spring seemed soon
to blossom. I often was content to read the poems
of William Blake and Tennyson and Coleridge and Keats
in dark corners where no one stood but I. But as darkness
grew to end the sun and color skies pure black,
I knew it time to say goodbye to rhythms and to rhymes
and begin my stroll along endless paths to sleep away
my hidden horrors, and as well, my sorrows sodden.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 11:13 PM UTC
is the title of my latest book. It is a compilation of strictly English poets dating back to the 1800's. My favorite writer William Shakespeare is not included because I wanted a theme of writers living around the same time as one another. It includes the works of brilliant English writers such as William Wordsworth, his dear friend Percy Bysshe Shelley, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and John Keats. It is written in the original true English fashion, back when the word proved rhymed with loved and wasn't just a sight ryhme. I plan on compiling another book of strictly my favorite poetesses such as Emily Dickinson, Plath, and the like. The Kindle edition is priced at $7, but like my other books I'll probably run it for free for a few days for promotional purposes. The paperback is priced at $6.25 and is not eligible for free promotional offers.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 9:12 PM UTC