If I had a time machine, I would visit Samuel T Coleridge
My favorite poet of all time, the author or Kubla Khan
"The wailing of his demon lover” sticks in my mind
Delighting me every time, especially today, May 1st, 1803.
As I was speaking to Samuel, his pal William Wordsworth would drop in
They would ask me if I wanted to write a ballad with them.
I would be thunderstruck with happiness but too shy to do it
However, I would clap in rhythm as they created
Wordsworth would talk about his deep love of the
“Beauteous forms of the natural world”
I would be amazed by their vocabulary
They would both blow my mind out into the hills
I would set my time machine to 1858 next.
To visit Jules Verne, one of my favorite authors.
I would ask him how he thought to create
Around the world in eighty days and twenty leagues under the sea.
Amazed that we still speak of him in 2025,
he would have a zillion interesting questions to ask me
I would set the time machine to year 1868 next. .
My last stop would be to visit Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women.
Wailing for her demon lover, Coleridge had it right
A masterful poet, his words are ominous, not light.
Did he have his own sweet love? Was she a secret too?
Gothic ideas of mystery swirl around my brain in blue.
Coleridge was a master; his work keeps me on the edge.
His imagery on the brink of pushing me just shy of off the ledge.
Is she a figment of Coleridge’s imagination, or does his own maiden exist?
If she is a married woman, will they never find a bliss or share a kiss?
A secret Coleridge has kept, in a dark, dank, dour place.
His poetry so wonderful, I smile when I see a likeness of his face.
Samuel T. Coleridge, a master whose poetry delights my dendrite stream.
Sometimes his powerful stanzas float into my Gothic current dream.
S T Coleridge 'TIME REAL & IMAGINARY'
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Samuel Taylor Colleridge of some poetic intellect
sadly his health he could not protect
Opium became a daily habit
ruining hismarriage his life quite a bit
I would not use, words of hyperbole,
To describe you, my friend.
As i am not WORDSWORTH,
To explain your heart and your beauteous forms.
I do lack the Imagination of KEATS,
To gracefully praise your songs.
Nor have I achieved the vision of COLERIDGE,
To see past your earthly charms.
Oh dear! , I am just an ordinary guy,
who at his lonely hours,
sitting on thy couch,
Recollect the memories,
of such sublime pleasures,
Spent on those halls of ivy, the cafeteria, the lake, and the park.
Those memories that brings a smile on my face,
That now i know what blessed mood really feels like,
What it is like getting a relief,
from the weary weight,
of this dusty selfish world.
That now i do realize,
The greatest gift of GOD,
Given to me,
Is the privilege of your FRIENDSHIP,
that leads me,
To the path of kindness and joy,
Until the river of my heart,
Reaches its horizon,
To walk upon its eternal lonely path...
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, depressed since his father passed when he was ten.
Friendships with William Wordsworth and Robert Southey off and on again.
Literary critic, philosopher, theologian and poet whom I adore.
Wrote my favorite poem “Kubla Kahn” when he was a depressed poet of twenty-four.
His poetry so lyrically delightful, and supernaturally insightful.
The fact he was an opium addict, to me is simply rather frightful.
Born in 1772, his poetry has had a profound effect on me.
I have loved all of his missives since I was a non-poet of twenty-three.
The Poets Plucker….. Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Here in my cold lonely bed I ponder my all
I have FEARS in SOLITUDE of being alone
DEJECTION of my love had pierced my heart…..yet
THE NIGHTINGALE sings lustily a cheerful tune
My consciousness behaves as EOLIAN HARP
as Coleridge poem suggests full of delusion
So through opaque glass my window I cannot see
FROST AT MIDNIGHT has now spoilt for me this vision
So with dejection, curl into a foetal ball
hiding In THIS LIME-TREE BOWER A PRISON MAKE
I await my fate, wondering will my heart heal
Will I from my ongoing pity…soon awake
penned 5 February 2017
Before the Mariner grew old, and sailed upon the wave,
He had a wife, a daughter too... she drove him to his grave!
T'was not the Albatross that cursed this man who rode upon the foam,
Before all that his life was worse - with tales of ribbon, brush and comb.
His daughter, see, had bright red locks. She kept them fresh by grooming;
But could not see the mess she'd made when she was finished 'pruning'.
At times like these, her father snapped; too tired and vexed to think:
DAUGHTER, DAUGHTER! EVERY HAIR'S AGAIN DROPPED IN THE SINK!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Opium was his mind bridge
It took him down to Xanadu.
Just think what Ecstasy would do.
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