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One of England’s best-known poems, “Kubla Khan,” was written by Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834). Waking from an Opium-induced dream, he was 55 lines into this epic when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. This poem would have been much longer if not for the legendary, “Man from Porlock.” Coleridge wrote about the incident himself, referring to himself in the third person:

On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Who was the “Man from Porlock?” asks UK poet Jeff Eardley with this challenge. In a poem, write your version of who he was and post it in the comments below. Mr. Eardley’s sample is below:

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The Man from Porlock

I am the man from Porlock,
You can put the blame on me,
For interrupting Samuel,
In his joyful reverie.
For it was I, supplying him,
With all that dope he used,
That rendered him incapable,
Befuddled and bemused.
His epic may have been too long,
For most of us to bear,
So Mr. Taylor Coleridge,
Aren’t you glad I stopped you there?

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Put yours in the comments below!

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41 Responses

  1. Cynthia Erlandson

    The world of people, it is often said,
    Is made up of two kinds:
    Some (or most) of them, instead
    Of being listeners, think that no one minds
    If all they do is talk and talk.
    Such was Coleridge’s man from Porlock.

    Reply
  2. Phil L. Flott

    All of my life I have remained heartbroken that someone woke STC from recollecting the rest of the words of the poem.

    Reply
  3. Paul A. Freeman

    The Porlock tramp slept in a barn
    Then knocked on Sam’s front door, and darn;
    Sam’s opiate daze
    left a Xanadu haze
    where once there was Kubla and Khan.

    Reply
  4. Allegra Silberstein

    Delightful and good advice hidden for many poets who could use with an interruption.

    Reply
  5. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Sam heard at the door a great knock.
    A wizard he met from Porlock.
    When his words one would hear,
    He made thoughts disappear.
    Sam swore he had met a Warlock.

    Reply
  6. James A. Tweedie

    The Man from Porlock

    I’m sorry,” said the FedEx man,
    Who stood outside my flat’s front door.
    “Your signature, please, if you can,”
    He said. “Just that, and nothing more.”

    I signed, and quickly locked him out,
    I had, you see, some verse to write,
    But then he knocked again, a clout
    That shook the house and snuffed the light.

    “I’m sorry” said the FedEx man,
    But here’s the parcel that I brought,
    It’s from a man named Kubla Khan,
    Or some such foreign-sounding lot.”

    “From who?” I asked. “You mean, from WHOM!”
    He said, correcting my mistake.
    I grabbed the nearest thing, a broom,
    And grabbed the box and tried to make

    Him leave by sweeping him away.
    But there he stood as if there were
    A few things more he had to say.
    “I live and work in Porlock, sir,”

    “And though I feel hesitant,
    I think it fair to ask if you
    Could spare a tip of ten percent.
    If not, a sixpence ought to do.”

    I slammed and locked the door and then
    Returned to write what I had dreamt.
    But nothing more flowed from my pen,
    My inspiration had been spent.

    The only thing I could recall?
    His “Kubla Khan,” and that was all.

    Reply
    • Shamik Banerjee

      I love it! You have weaved a completely new and refreshing verse out of the Porlock guy.

      Reply
  7. Jeff Eardley

    I am the man from Porlock,
    A purveyor of fine bread,
    To Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
    Who is oft times off his head.
    He says my interruptions,
    Are a noise he doesn’t want.
    He thought that he could “Kubla Khan,”
    But now he “Kubla Khan’t.”

    Reply
  8. Joseph S. Salemi

    Some jerk rapped the Coleridge door —
    What’s clear is Sam thought him a bore.
    An hour of chatter
    On God-knows-what matter
    Gave us less “Kubla Khan,” and not more.

    Reply
  9. Geoffrey Smagacz

    Knock knock. “Are you inside?” Knock knock.
    “My good man, Samuel Coleridge.
    Tis your cousin from old Porlock.
    A shilling for the toll bridge?”

    Reply
  10. Paul A. Freeman

    The Porlock man knocks.
    Samuel Taylor Coleridge
    is soon lost for words.

    Reply
  11. Shamik Banerjee

    Although I’ve heard about this topic before, I never gave it much thought. But thanks to your lovely poem, Jeff, as it inspired me to write the following lines:

    The Porlock Mystery

    By reading this, what I can glean
    Is that ‘obstructor’ must have been
    A future man who played that trick
    (With accurate arithmetic),
    Full-knowing that in mankind’s course,
    His act would spark a great discourse.

    Reply
  13. Anna J. Arredondo

    He’s known for rapping on a door,
    But he’s to blame for so much more…

    The Man from Porlock is the smell 
    of dinner burning in the kitchen;
    The husband (whom you love so well)
      who comes with clothes that need your stitchin’;
    The chauffeur needs of child and teen;
      A leaky pipe; a fender dent;
    The dog whose vomit you must clean;
      The laundry piles that won’t relent;
    The coworker who overstays
      her welcome; deadlines imminent;
    The tasks of over-busy days
      that spit you out at night all spent…

    First known for rapping at a door —
    Now he’s become a metaphor.

    Reply
  14. Steven Kent

    Introducing A Man From Porlock

    Mr. Coleridge, I’m from Porlock Trust
    And we are more than just a bit concerned.
    Your account is overdrawn again;
    This kind of thing must stop, it simply must.

    You and I have had a talk before;
    I frankly thought the lesson had been learned,
    Yet it’s only been a week since then
    And though I really hate to be a bore—

    Oh, you’re writing? Well, I’ll keep it short,
    Be on my way before the hour has turned.
    I still need to call on other men;
    Please turn to page 13 of my report. . . .

    Reply
  15. Jeff Eardley

    Can I say a huge thank you for all who contributed to this, and you can blame Evan for coming up with the idea in the first place. The Man from Porlock has a lot to answer for and I hope that we can all re-visit this iconic verse once more. Best wishes to all on SCP.

    Reply
  16. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Jeff, I love this challenge – thank you! I was going to go the way of Anna Arrendondo with the metaphor idea. but decided to change tack after reading a poem I could not possibly better. Great one, Anna!

    Knock, Knock…

    I’m Porlock, here to check your Muse
    Is kept on track. She mustn’t stray
    To snoozy realms that won’t enthuse,
    Where convoluted odes confuse
    And windbags like to play.

    I once trod miles of fertile ground
    Where choking smoke swirled all around
    To Xanadu where Kubla Khan began
    (from Coleridge’s pen) to prattle on
    Beyond the thrills of sinuous rills till man
    And beast were fleeing from the pleasure dome.

    If you, fair poet, hear a knock,
    It’s Porlock, here to make words shine.
    I’m here to silence, here to block
    All Muses working round the clock
    Beyond the final line.

    Reply
    • Jeff Eardley

      Susan, I have been ticking off the hours today, knowing that it would come along, and here it is.
      I have a vision of you, complete with slightly out of tune dulcimer, sitting with Mike on the beach by the sunless sea as you create this super contribution. My snoozy realms will enthuse so much more after reading this. Thank you again.

      Reply
    • Julian D. Woodruff

      Excellent, Susan–not one I’d quickly have guessed was from you. What about one on the Mariner, or …?

      Reply
    • Susan Jarvis Bryant

      Thank you, Jeff and Julian.

      Jeff, you always make me smile. I’m glad you enjoyed my offering… I could have written all afternoon on the subject… but I heard a knock… a persistent knock…

      And Julian, thank you for your appreciation… I got to the line… “stanzas, stanzas everywhere… and there was a knock… a persistent knock…

      I love yours, by the way! Great stuff!

      Reply
  17. Julian D. Woodruff

    The Man from Porlock

    “A man from Porlock”—that indeed I am.
    “The man from Porlock,” though, it’s better put.
    As Gilbert wrote, “all other kinds are sham”;
    why, will be in short order understood.

    Sam Coleridge, whom I spirited away
    from work that to this day rests incomplete,
    failed to explain it. What he had to say
    was like the chirping of a parakeet.

    You see, I am the ghost of broken spells.
    The abandoned, the unfinished I adore.
    Justice insists I be the one who tells
    this truth: I am art’s great liberator.

    At my touch, masterworks elude the state
    of stale, mundane completion. I make sure
    that artists’ zeal must cease or else abate,
    so that their projects gain unique allure.

    Think of the slaves of Michelangelo,
    or Stuart’s portrait of George Washington,
    Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. And so
    it goes: the list is long—but never done!

    So now you know. I’ve just one thing to add,
    Which is … which is …

    A Confession

    Home once more, Coleridge, lost in a fever,
    had forgotten his poem. A breather
    left the poet in doubt
    as to why he’d gone out:
    no, he couldn’t remember that either.

    Reply
  18. Talbot

    As someone who was inspired to write a poem (at least partially) by Xanadu, this Porlock matter has continuously tickled me. It’s such a strange occurrence (and might even be fantasy itself). Anywho . . .

    I shambled wayward as a bum
    (And wore a beard to hide my face),
    When all at once I found I’d come
    To Sammy T. Coleridge’s place;
    Beside his bed, bent o’er the page,
    I found him scribbling in a rage.

    Beneath his feet a half-lit pipe,
    And on his face a fevered dream;
    It’s clear he’d found a thing so ripe
    It caused his eyes and soul to beam.
    And what’s a friend but an earnest foe?
    I knocked quite loud to break his flow.

    His head flew up, his back erect,
    The light diminished in his eyes;
    I saw him toil to recollect
    The thought that honey-dew implies.
    He screamed aloud and slapped his brow.
    We’ll see who gets that book-deal now . . . .

    Reply
    • Paul A. Freeman

      Yep, this one is great, Talbot.

      My fave lines, ‘And what’s a friend but an earnest foe? / I knocked quite loud to break his flow.’

      The final line rounded the poem off nicely, too.

      Reply
  19. Jeff Eardley

    Julian, I love the “ghost of broken spells” and the punchline limerick. This is a great piece. Thank you.

    Reply
    • Julian D. Woodruff

      Thanks, Jeff
      Actually there should have been an extra dropped line after “The Man from Porlock”: I intended the limerick as a 2nd entry, not really related to the 1st (or to the Man from Porlock, actually).

      Reply
  20. Patrick Murtha

    You trothed to me your heart. Shall you again
    Make schism? For what? I’ve loved you true and long,
    And long impregnated with pangs of pain,
    With mirth and merriment your manly song.
    Whose breath breathed life into those elven strings?
    Your Sara–from whom too soon, fool boy,
    You’ve dissected yourself? You drink from springs
    Which flow with much remorse and little joy.
    Are not my lips sufficient that you must sip
    Of false illusion-inducing streams?
    And, in a darker hour, your painted ship
    Will strike a doldrum: who will set you free?
    Some quaffed nepenthe will doom you. I knock.
    Answer and follow my phantom to Porlock.

    Reply
    • Patrick Murtha

      I should have added a brief introduction or a title. This is the Muse to Coleridge upon his relying on opium for his inspiration.

      Reply
      • Jeff Eardley

        Patrick. This is a great work, worthy of repeat readings and for me, a new word, “nepenthe.”
        Thank you for a super contribution.

      • Patrick Murtha

        Thank you for your kind words. If you have any recommendations on perfecting the poem, I’m all ears. The timing of Sara is incorrect. He married Sara in 1795, but they separated in 1804. “Kubla Khan” and “The Mariner” happened between; but “The Aeolian Harp” came slightly before.

        As for nepenthe, I borrowed it from Poe, along with “quaff”–“quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore…” Poe’s narrator seemed to be laudinum or opium as well.

  21. Mia

    Thank you for another great challenge and such interesting poems to read.
    I have enjoyed reading all of them.

    The Porlock Posse

    In times past when the man
    From Porlock paid a visit, I find
    I was little too amenable and kind;
    Now it really has put me in a bind,
    For not only has he moved in of late
    But he has brought his sundry mates.
    This bunch of motley girls and boys
    Appear to have their fatal ploys
    To reduce or rob me of my joys.
    Though each has his dues and rates,
    I try to ignore their insistent baits
    But the dentist and optician
    Are both on an strident mission,
    They’ve painful ways to gain attention
    I really do not need to mention
    Their glee when I can’t escape
    Their drills and tear- inducing scrapes.
    The only ones that have resigned
    Are the dietician and beautician,
    For sadly they’ve been long ignored,
    So they’ve made way for the physician
    Who has a sharp way to draw blood
    Both from the veins and piggybank.
    Each day exhausted and in need of rest
    I long to sit and write my best
    But then the looming osteopath returns
    And tells me I must walk for miles,
    (It seems that I must change my style,
    I really cannot abide his smirk and smile)
    I work, I garden, cook, dust and clean
    Does he have any idea what that means!
    Affronted at his insistent tweaks
    I take some time to repose and think.

    I’ll write those rhymes I wake up with
    Tomorrow, that’s when I’ll be really smart,
    For once more I’ll have to make an early start
    Today, as the decorator’s here to paint
    The house, I so much hope he’ll be a saint
    And be done by Christmas, as I have
    A long list I must peruse forthwith,
    (After I’ve put things back in place that is.)
    I will write something worthy one day,
    I know, but meanwhile the Porlocks
    Can take all the blame. It is not my fault,
    It is just my fate, in vain to struggle
    And to strive but they would rather
    Just not see me thrive. I am their victim
    Such is life, I should have said
    Go, take a hike, but now it is far too late
    And that’s why my befuddled brain
    Makes my verse verbose and dense
    And well and truly second best.

    Reply
  22. BDW

    A Waterfall in Xanadu
    by Air Weelbed Suc

    The waterfall was streaming down the rolling hills.
    Faint, steamy clouds arose beside its many spills.
    I longed to drink its water, follow down its rills.
    For me, there could not be, I think, much greater thrills.
    Such beauty in the world leaves one hot with chills.
    Such loveliness helps one to face the harshest wills.
    Such pretty peace helps one to face the hardest ills.
    How can there be a waterfall that so fulfills?
    But if I could get on one of its many sills,
    I think those slopes so slippery with wet, white quills,
    that I would fall forever down. Its edged shape kills.
    And yet I wish I could pause where it lulls and mills,
    because each flush along its way sweet love instills.
    It is a shining series of divine untils.
    Its gorgeous furrows leave one pink around the gills.
    The glittering of drops, the shimmering, clear trills,
    are like the scattering of crystal daffodils
    in rainbowed arcs above divine and sunlit villes,
    or gleaming silver flecks on radiator grills.
    If I could hold it, keeping but its frothy frills,
    with that alone, I know I’d be in heaven still.

    Decades ago, Coleridge inspired, especially transcendentally, as in the above poem.

    But even now, I continue to drawn inspiration from his work, especially “The Rime”.

    Reply
  23. lilli

    The man from porlock
    I am the man from porlock
    I Supply
    I kill
    I ruin
    I am the man from porlock
    I am unnamed
    all I have done is maimed
    broken and destroyed lives around me
    just to make a dollar
    I am the man from porlock
    there’s a beautiful kind of chaos that comes with disintegrating lives around you
    making everyone choose
    making people fight and kill just to lose
    the ones they love
    The ones they choose to shove
    To get what they want

    Reply

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