Number 129: Susan Meyers " Hat of Many Goldfinches"

Hat of Many Goldfinches

Say you could wear twenty goldfinches on your head,
ten females in their soft, modest plumage
and ten bright males.
What jubilation,
all that twittering and hopping about.
Little feet massaging your scalp, little beaks
perchicoreeing to everyone you pass.
No need for ribbons
or veils on your black and yellow nest
of excitement, your curious crown of animation.

But how to seduce the finches to stay. A sprinkle
of thistle in your hair might hold them
long enough for you to kneel
at the altar of morning.
Gives you goose bumps
to feel the beaks tapping against your skin.
Walking down noon's aisle, you nod
and they shift a little.
More shuffling,
and the hat is rearranged. Take your photo,
or look in the mirror, and the hat you see there
is another, not the same hat you wear now.

Never depend on a hat of goldfinches
to bore you.
And forget the hatbox. These hats rest in sweet gums
and maples, on a narrow shelving of limbs.

I once knew a woman who wore her robin hat
when the finches wouldn't come. But the hat was heavy
and the brown depressed her.
She stayed home that morning,
her hair crawling with worms. The day she wore her
bluebird hat the bugs bothered her breathing,
the smallest attracted to the wind of her nostrils.

Now she knows to wait
for the finches. As long as there are finches,
there's a dream of a hat of finches—
the hat
we all want to wear on the day we die.
Imagine your own last dimming, its perfect
orchestration: final breath, pause,
a sudden fluttering
and lifting of forty somber wings.

-- Susan Meyers

Hap Notes: I don't know much about Susan Meyers other than she lives in South Carolina, has won numerous poetry awards and is the author of Keep and Giveaway, a delightful collection of her wonderful poems. She has an MFA from Queens University in Charlotte.

Monday has this glum reputation and I suppose there's good reason for it what with corporate America grinding out more junk and we all get to participate in its machinations whether we want to or not. So for my Mondays (and the glumness doesn't always deposit its silt there- so many days to choose from!) I read poems that fill me with reverent glee, that lift my spirits, and "Hat of Many Goldfinches" is on the top of my list. Of course, I am a bird lover, too.

There's more to this poem that just hatty charm, though. There's something very right in the phrase "a sudden fluttering /and lifting of forty somber wings" to describe the breathtaking and sudden sad grace of death. The poem is equally whimsical and reverent- now there's a fine hat trick.

We will do more Meyers this year, I think.

Here's a great quote from Meyers: "Poetry helps me to make meaning of life. I’m drawn to its compression—the engagement with language, rhythm and sound."

You can read the whole interview here: rickischultz.wordpress.com/2010/04/05/swa-presenter-spotlight-susan-meyers/

You can find her blog and more of her incandescent poetry here: susanmeyers.blogspot.com/

Number 128: Robert Frost "The Silken Tent"

The Silken Tent

She is as in a field a silken tent

At midday when a sunny summer breeze

Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,

So that in guys it gently sways at ease,

And its supporting central cedar pole,

That is its pinnacle to heavenward

And signifies the sureness of the soul,

Seems to owe naught to any single cord,

But strictly held by none, is loosely bound

By countless silken ties of love and thought

To everything on earth the compass round,

And only by one's going slightly taut

In the capriciousness of summer air

Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

--Robert Frost

Hap Notes: First off, the structure of this poem (like the woman he is describing) is pretty amazing. It's a Shakespearean sonnet which is composed of only one (long) sentence. If this does not take your breath away a bit, you need to try it once, for a lark, to see how masterful that is.

A brief bit of explication: Frost is comparing a woman he knows to a tent made of silk. Not with taut ropes (like the ropes of a tent are when the dew has constricted them) but with a light easily flowing rope that gives a bit after the dew has dried. She is not characterless, she has a strong "backbone" symbolized by the center pole of the tent, but she has a graceful flow and is not uptight or perceived as constricted.

Now, here's the part of the poem that is easy to overlook. The woman and the poem are one in that the form Frost is using has strict parameters yet the tone and the words are easy and conversational and flow on gracefully. One is not aware of the strict form any more than one is aware of the woman's "constrictions" because the flow is light, easy and pleasing.

It may be the loveliest poem every written to a woman- it does not ignore her character and still sees her easy flowing rhythms and charm. It is admiration without a lot of nonsense about physical beauty and youth-- this is all about the woman taken as a whole free person. This woman has a sense of self.

It is believed to be a poem about his wife, Elinor. Some say it is about Frost's love affair with the world or poetry. It all works for me.

Here's where we have talked about Frost before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html

and: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/01/number-51-robert-frost-choose-something.html

and:happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/03/number-95-robert-frost-spring-pools.html

P.S. Thought since we always see pictures of Frost as a craggy old guy it might be nice to see a picture of him when he was younger.

Number 127: Rexroth exerpts from "A Bestiary"

Lion


The lion is called the king

Of beasts. Nowadays there are 

Almost as many lions

In cages as out of them. 

If offered a crown, refuse.

Man 


Someday, if you are lucky,

You’ll each have one for your own. 

Try it before you pick it. 

Some kinds are made of soybeans.

Give it lots to eat and sleep. 

Treat it nicely and it will

Always do just what you want.


Raccoon 


The raccoon wears a black mask,

And he washes everything 

Before he eats it. If you 

Give him a cube of sugar,

He’ll wash it away and weep.

Some of life’s sweetest pleasures 

Can be enjoyed only if

You don’t mind a little dirt. 

Here a false face won’t help you.

Trout 


The trout is taken when he 

Bites an artificial fly. 

Confronted with fraud, keep your

Mouth shut and don’t volunteer.

You


Let Y stand for you who says,

“Very clever, but surely 

These were not written for your 

Children?” Let Y stand for yes.


Hap Notes: Well, as long as we talked about Rexroth yesterday, I thought these might be fun for "Saturday Cartoon Poems." Rexroth wrote these poems (there's a whole alphabet of them), for his daughters Mary and Katherine.

The poems are full of Rexroth's wit and acerbic social criticism. They remind me a little of Ambrose Bierce's cutting satiric verse. They're also a bit like Thurber's Fables for Our Times which is a good read in its own right, although not verse.

The masthead pictures are from Grand Ole Bestiary: www.etsy.com/shop/GrandOleBestiary

Number 126: Kenneth Rexroth "GIC To HAR"

GIC To HAR

It is late at night, cold and damp
The air is filled with tobacco smoke.
My brain is worried and tired.
I pick up the encyclopedia,
The volume GIC to HAR,
It seems I have read everything in it,
So many other nights like this.
I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak,
Listening to the long rattle and pound
Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance.
Suddenly I remember
Coming home from swimming
In Ten Mile Creek,
Over the long moraine in the early summer evening,
My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud.
I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse,
And instantly and clearly the revelation
Of a song of incredible purity and joy,
My first rose-breasted grosbeak,
Facing the low sun, his body
Suffused with light.
I was motionless and cold in the hot evening
Until he flew away, and I went on knowing
In my twelfth year one of the great things
Of my life had happened.
Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek.
On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive.
And I am on the other side of the continent
Ten years in an unfriendly city.

-- Kenneth Rexroth

Hap Notes: Kenneth Rexroth (1905-1982) is known for his sensual erotic poems which encompass his view of the male-female relationship as divinely sacred and his political views which were called "anarchistic" but were more Buddhist than anything else. But here we have Rexroth doing what he does so well; seamlessly melding several observances into a poem packed with meaning that no-one can fail to understand. The "simple" wording of the poem relates a giant wallop of ideas and experiences in a short poem.

Rexroth was the consumate autodidact and is said to have read the Encyclopedia Brittanica from cover to cover every year, as he said "Cover to cover, like a novel." He was reading Greek and Roman classics at an age most kids are still watching Sesame Street. His mother taught him to read when he was four years old and he consumed books with a passion. He was born in South Bend, Indiana but his family frequently moved around the upper Midwest until his father (who had an alcohol problem) and mother died and he lived with an aunt in Chicago. He went to school at the Art Institute of Chicago, was expelled, had a variety of odd jobs and was arrested in 1923 for being part owner of a brothel. This was all before the age of 19.

After he got out of prison he traveled around the U.S., then lived in a monastery for a while (which he loved) and then he hitchhiked around the country, worked another bunch of odd jobs, got on a steamship, saw Mexico and Paris, and then moved to San Francisco and later Santa Barbara. I'm tired just thinking about all the energy it took to do all this. Sheesh!

Rexroth was a key figure in bringing the "Beats" to prominence, hosting readings (like the first legendary Ginsberg "Howl" reading) and Ferlinghetti claims Rexroth as an influence. Rexroth was NOT a beat poet and when asked about it would say "An entomologist is not a bug." Rexroth felt that the Beats did not fully grasp the Buddhist philosophies they claimed to adhere to (thank you, Kenneth!) but appreciated their spirit and intensity. "Howl," by the by, is heavily inspired by Rexroth's poem "Thou Shalt Not Kill" (which in my estimation is a better poem, just my opinion,now. Maybe we'll do that one someday- it's awesome and probably too long for our purposes. After you read it, you'll see the influence it had on Ginsberg, though.)

I can't possibly do justice to Rexroth's life here so let's go on to the poem. First of all I have an example of the rose-breasted grosbeak: www.youtube.com/watch?v=NixrHvecZ8c
I think the example will tell you why such a site and sound would transfix anyone as Rexroth describes it in his poem. He does a wonderful job of describing the feel and the smell of coming home after a swim in a creek, doesn't he? And now the creek is full of rejectamenta and the poet is feeling a bit like that creek, eh? The world is decidedly not a very friendly place for people who think and want to write poetry and love life and people. Hmmm. Why is that? Why do we pollute our swimming creeks that want to just flow and fill with life?

The European starling, by the by, is not native to North America but was introduced to America in 1890. Rexroth is not complaining about immigrants, he's making a statement about the natural world.

Here's a good Rexroth quote (and there are many. He wrote some wonderful essays and prefaces to poetry collections. His essay on Van Gogh's letters show he really understood the artist. Best piece I've ever read on him.): "The basic line in any good verse is cadenced... building it around the natural breath structures of speech."

and: "It takes great labor to uncover the convincing simple speech of the heart. Poetic candor comes with hard labor, so even does impetuosity and impudence."

I rarely do this but this will give you a glimpse of his genius – some selected quotes : en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Kenneth_Rexroth

You can find more Rexroth poetry here at the Bureau of Public Secrets: www.cddc.vt.edu/bps/rexroth/poems/index.htm

Number 125: George Pope Morris "Woodman, Spare That Tree!"

The Oak

Woodman, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.

'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot;

There, woodman, let it stand,

Thy axe shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown

Are spread o'er land and sea--

And wouldst thou hew it down?

Woodman, forebear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;

In all their gushing joy

Here, too, my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand--

Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend!

Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still brave!

And, woodman, leave the spot;

While I've a hand to save,

thy axe shall harm it not.

Hap Notes: Just thought I'd show a bit of what American poetry was like around the same time period with Keats and Shelley and Byron et. al. This poem by George Pope Morris (1802-1864) was published in 1837 (a good 15 years after the deaths of the three English Romantic poets) and it sort of shows you why, in spite of American poetry's dear thoughts, English teachers taught all that British poetry for so many years. Morris was 35 when he wrote this poem – Keats was about 24 when he wrote yesterday's "Grecian Urn."

Now, this poem of Morris was almost immediately turned into a song, as many of his poems were. Here's the first one if you'd like to hear it: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjyD5wZjZ-U
Here's a hipper version from the inimitable Phil Harris: www.youtube.com/watch?v=nwcYPCpIIkY&feature=related
In fact, no less than Edgar Allen Poe pronounced Morris one of the great song writers/poets of America. Some consider this the first "environmental protest song" but I think that's gilding the lily a bit, don't you? Morris' poem was originally titled "The Oak."

Morris was not primarily a poet, although he wrote a good lot of it. He was an editor and publisher. He founded the New York Evening Mirror with Nathan Parker Willis and the Mirror first published Poe's "The Raven". (Willis, a famed travel writer, was a friend to both Poe and Longfellow.) In fact the paper published lots of poetry and criticism and was successful at it.

In 1846 Morris and Willis left the Mirror to start the Home Journal magazine. The Home Journal reviewed a lot of poetry also, including women poets, and reviewed Thoreau's Walden and Hawthorne's Blithedale Romance. The Home Journal, by the by, eventually turned into Town and Country magazine in 1846. It is the oldest continually published general interest magazine in the United States- you can find it on the news stand today. (Breaking off briefly to say that if you were reading Town and Country and eating a roll of Necco Wafers you would be doing what folks did in 1860, sorta.)

Morris says he based this poem on an actual incident that happened with a friend of his. While they were traveling around together, his friend noticed that a man was going to chop down a tree that had been outside of his old home (and was now owned by the "woodsman") and the friend begged the man not to chop down the tree. In the end, the "woodsman" was given $10 to let it stand in perpetuity (which sort of strikes me as more of a story of a man who needed the money and was selling fire wood (which is why he was cutting down the tree) and a guy who actually had $10- a lot of money in 1846. However, this does not diminish the nobility of the sentiment and a tree is a noble creature.)

This is another of the poems my mother and grandfather could recite on cue. I'll bet someone older in your family knows of it, also. Just as an aside, oaks can grow to be huge. There's one in Nottinghamshire, England that's estimated to be at least 800 years old – Robin Hood was supposedly sheltered by it.

You can find and entire book of Morris' work here: readbookonline.net/books/Morris/330/

Here's a little extra Morris poem bonus:

The Miniature

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:--he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane--
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is much like you."
"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
"Why--no--my love," said he.
"Then, William, it is very clear
'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"

-- George Pope Morris

Number 124: John Keats "Ode On a Grecian Urn"

Ode On a Grecian Urn

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

Forever piping songs forever new; 

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting, and forever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, — that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

--John Keats

Hap Notes: It's hard to believe that Keats wrote six of the greatest English Romantic odes in a period of 3-6 weeks, isn't it? They were all written around this time of year in 1819. Keats wrote poetry for a total of about 6 years, he died when he was 25 – it's almost too extraordinary to contemplate. How did this young man, whose work, in his time, was highly criticized as "uncouth" and "raw" ever write these wonderful poems? This is one of those six odes.

When I read this poem as a kid, I thought the ode was written ON the urn- like a label. This silly thought has a bit of merit – the urn IS telling us something about life on earth, its transitive quality. But it isn't actually written on the urn- I suppose you knew this already. (Come on, I was 12 years old – I was guessing.)

Whether Keats is talking about a specific urn (I don't know that he was) or not, the poem is describing an antique urn, the pictures on it, and then telling us something about the nature of love, life, truth and beauty. Not bad for 50 lines or so, eh?

First some vocabulary: Tempe and Arcady are places, Tempe is in Thessaly (Greece) and Arcady is a region in Greece. These places are used to indicate the pastoral ideal.
The "little town" he's talking about is not pictured on the urn but is "emptied" of its residents as the figures on the urn are running around in fields and making sacrifices.
Brede means braiding or embroidery.
Loth is reluctant.
Attic shape means Attica in Greece- he's just saying it's a Grecian urn. (I won't tell you what I thought this meant when I was a kid but you can guess, I'm sure. And it makes sense, too – maybe they kept the urn in the attic... just sayin'.)

Okay, now to the poem. Keats calls the urn an "unravished bride" because it is intact. It has existed down through the ages in its solitude. It is a "foster child" of silence and time because time has left it in its pristine condition and it is well, silent. So, like any child, it exhibits qualities of its parents, it has "adopted" them.

The poet says the music being played on the urn, because we are just seeing pictures of people playing music, is all the sweeter because the music is for the spirit, the artist created the music players for us to see that music exists, is being played, is part of the scene. The piper will always play happy songs. The young man can never touch his fair maiden, but they will always be, on the urn, in love, always beautiful, always in the blush of romance.

Okay, you're getting the drift now, I suppose. The urn is a frozen bit of blissful time that reminds us of the beauties and joys of life that drift down through the ages. We know and understand what is going on in the pictures and future generations will contemplate the same things as they stare at the urn. This beauty, this frozen time, this understanding of the joys of everyday life (oops I'm sliding into MY interpretation now) is the only truth we can all understand. It means something to us as we see happy pipers, lovers, worshipers, going about their lives on this silent piece of pottery (or marble- I'm never sure on that).) This beauty fills us, we know its truth. And this, Keats says, is all we know and all we need to know. This filling up of life – the urn reminds us of the precious gift of life (uh, that's my interpretation again.)

I have to admit that I used to hate the last two stanzas of the poem because I thought (in my youth) they sounded rather facile and shallow. But Keats isn't really talking about only physical beauty here, he's talking about the beauty of life itself, in all its happiness. (I suppose I should mention to NOT use my interpretation of this poem for a term paper. Keats is certainly saying that youth and beauty are fleeting and love eventually leads to sorrow and the body ages. But he was 25 years old and I think the beauty and truth he feels are those one feels as a youth. As one ages, one sees the great beauty in aged beat-up urns, as well. And the spirit of Keats in the poem makes me think he'd have known this as he aged. And of course, he's saying that art will live on as generations fade.)

Keats has always seemed to me to be like a sort of angel that left poetry for us and then disappeared – which is a sort of sappy way to look at it when you consider his last days which were filled with smelly suffering.

Think on this – the poor guy is sick with tuberculosis (which they haven't figured out yet), he's bled (a common medical practice. Even George Washington was pretty much bled to death to "cure" him) and his friends think a trip to the warm sunny climes of Italy will help cure him. So this pallid, sickly poet and his physician and his friend Joseph Severn get on a ship. It's a rough crossing with big storms and then days of no wind or ship movement. Imagine you are that weak and ill and stuck on a sailing ship in the middle of the ocean. Sheesh! When they finally get to Italy, no one is allowed to leave the ship because there was an outbreak of cholera in England and the Italian authorities didn't want it to spread. By they time they get off the ship they had been on it for a month.

By the time they get off the ship it's November and it's not all that warm in Italy really. Keats had asked for some tincture of opium (he was in pain) and Severn had some for him but Keats may have seen the drug as a way to commit suicide (at least it seemed that way) so Severn finally ended up giving it to the doctor to hold. Keats was never given the drug again (this is sad as his pain increases.) Instead the physician prescribed a "diet" because he though Keats' trouble was stomach related. So now we have this thin, weak, pale guy on a diet of one anchovy and one piece of bread a day!! (I'm not particularly blaming the doctor here – the medical profession is littered with as much idiocy as it is heroism.) Three months later (!!!!) Keats died. Severn held him through the "death rattling" breathing and he passed on. Keats knew he was going and was somewhat relieved. He is said to have said, "I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come."

Now, go have a hearty breakfast or lunch or supper. Take a good long walk. Enjoy the trees and the weather, whatever it may be. Thank your stars no doctor will bleed you to death if you get sick and on top of all that Keats left you some lovely verses to read. Don't wallow in sorrow, now – be glad that Keats left some of his best thoughts with us to enjoy. Death will come to us all. And his beautiful words hold some truth. Our beauties are transitory – rejoice in living in them. That's the gift we get from Keats' life – and that, is a lot really. It's universes full of sad joys.

The pictures are Severn's sketch of Keats while he was tending him in Italy and Keats' sketch of an urn he'd seen. Isn't it marvelous that people drew things then?

Here's where we've talked about Keats before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/01/number-37-john-keats-on-first-looking.html

P.S. Over the years I have loved this poem, written parodies of it ("Ode to Grecian Formula", "Ode to Greasy Earnings" (about a waitress), despised it and, after all these years, have come back to cherishing its youth and warmth. The poem can take a lot of abuse and still stand as a truth – just like the urn in the poem. Now, off for a good walk and a hearty lunch and a more than a bit of thanks to Keats!

Number 123: Samuel Taylor Coleridge "Kubla Khan"

Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

-- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Hap Notes: Where to start?
Should we talk about Coleridge (1772-1834) and his friend Wordsworth starting the English Romantic movement in poetry (of which Byron, Keats and Shelley were the second generation)?

Should we talk of his immense knowledge of literature (he single-handedly got Shakespeare's Hamlet out of the critical dustbin where it had been moldering for years as a "bad play"), philosophy (he was familiar with Kant long before anyone else knew who he was), German (he was assigned to translate Goethe's Faust- which is still a controversy since he reputedly never finished it- yet in 2007 Oxford University Press published what is supposedly his finished translation), and metaphysics?

Or do we talk about his monumental addiction to tincture of opium (some call it laudanum- and it was far cheaper than a bottle of gin in those days) and his recurring debilitating depressions?

I suppose we have to face the opium since Coleridge said that this poem came to him in an opium dream. First off, yes, it's a tad disjointed and Coleridge knew this and had a reason for it which is pretty famous. He said, while in the heat of writing it all down in an opiate furor, someone came to the door, a "person from Porlock," and the visitor ( a bill collector or something) took up an hour of his time and when he got back to the manuscript, the fire of creativity had burned out and he could only vaguely recall the rest of the dreamy scene. Forever after a "person from porlock" is sort of the British equivalent of "the dog ate my homework." (Breaking off briefly to say that Stevie Smith wrote a wonderful poem about this- we'll get to it later, I hope.) Coleridge claims the poem was going to be 300 lines or so but when he got back to the manuscript he had to dimly recall the vivid vision.

Some vocabulary: Athwart means "from one side to the other." "Cedarn" just means composed of cedars- the tree. "Chaffy grain" is the seed husks of wheat or some other grain- he's just saying that the fountain erupts like watching a thresher with the stuff spitting out everywhere.

Now, what's this poem about save for the obvious description of a place built by the Mongolian leader (or Khan) Kublai, the grandson, by the by, of Genghis Khan. Coleridge had been reading about the great Mongol conqueror who invaded pretty much everywhere: China, Japan, Vietnam, Burma, Mesopotamia, Tibet, Russia. It was Kublai Khan that Marco Polo visited and stayed with for more than 15 years. Shangdu (Xanadu) was Kublai's "summer capital." The Mongols had two goals- conquest and trade- and they were very very good at it.

However, there's more to the poem than just ice domes and incense trees. Coleridge is saying something about the writing of poetry and contrasting the man-made with the imaginative. The last stanzas have the poet creating lasting domes in the air through inspiration and imagination.

The more one reads about the poem, the more one wants to throttle that guy from Porlock – there are explications aplenty about this seminal work of Coleridge. I think I'm going to let you enjoy the dreamy drama of the poem and not weigh it down with a lot of literary theory. When I was a kid, I loved the poem because of its dreamy, exotic imagery and while I know Coleridge saw more in the vision than just that, the poem is easily enjoyable as a good read. Read it aloud with lots of drama- it's fun.

Here's a good Coleridge quote: That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith." (That's right, Coleridge coined the term.)

And another: "The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions - the little, soon forgotten charities of a kiss or a smile, a kind look or heartfelt compliment."

and again: "Works of imagination should be written in very plain language; the more purely imaginative they are the more necessary it is to be plain."

One more: "I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose = words in their best order; - poetry = the best words in the best order."

You can find more Coleridge here: www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/292

P.S. I have NO idea what kind of drugs were used in the making of the movie Xanadu with Olivia Newton John and Andy Gibb.

(For those of you who are Carrol fans, I've often thought that the Caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland was Coleridge and that maybe the Mad Hatter was a Coleridge benefactor, Richard "Conversation" Sharp... just a random thought)