"Marco Polo Before Kubla Khan" by CremonaThe Man from Porlock Poetry Challenge The Society October 10, 2023 Poetry, Poetry Challenge, Poetry Contests 41 Comments . 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: . 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? . Put yours in the comments below! . NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary. Trending now: 41 Responses Cynthia Erlandson October 10, 2023 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 Phil L. Flott October 10, 2023 All of my life I have remained heartbroken that someone woke STC from recollecting the rest of the words of the poem. Reply Paul A. Freeman October 10, 2023 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 Talbot October 11, 2023 This is delightful. Reply Allegra Silberstein October 10, 2023 Delightful and good advice hidden for many poets who could use with an interruption. Reply Roy Eugene Peterson October 10, 2023 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 James A. Tweedie October 10, 2023 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 October 11, 2023 I love it! You have weaved a completely new and refreshing verse out of the Porlock guy. Reply Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Mr Tweedie, this is superb. You are are an inspirational word-spinner. Reply Jeff Eardley October 10, 2023 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 Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 Brilliant! Reply Joseph S. Salemi October 10, 2023 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 Geoffrey Smagacz October 11, 2023 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 Paul A. Freeman October 11, 2023 The Porlock man knocks. Samuel Taylor Coleridge is soon lost for words. Reply Shamik Banerjee October 11, 2023 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 James A. Tweedie October 11, 2023 Lol. Shamik! Marvelous! Give us more, please! Reply Shamik Banerjee October 11, 2023 Thank you so much for reading my piece, Mr. Tweedie, and I’m glad you like it. Reply Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 Ditto! Anna J. Arredondo October 12, 2023 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 JULIAN WOODRUFF October 12, 2023 Excellent, as usual! I’ll send this one to my daughters. Reply Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Anna, this is brilliant!!! Reply Shamik Banerjee October 12, 2023 This poem is on a whole new level, Anna. Loved it! Thank you for sharing. Reply Steven Kent October 12, 2023 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 Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 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 Susan Jarvis Bryant October 12, 2023 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 October 12, 2023 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 October 12, 2023 Excellent, Susan–not one I’d quickly have guessed was from you. What about one on the Mariner, or …? Reply Susan Jarvis Bryant October 12, 2023 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 Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 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 Talbot October 12, 2023 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 Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Wow Talbot, this is great!!! Reply Paul A. Freeman October 25, 2023 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 Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Julian, I love the “ghost of broken spells” and the punchline limerick. This is a great piece. Thank you. Reply Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 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 Patrick Murtha October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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. Mia October 19, 2023 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 BDW October 22, 2023 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 lilli October 30, 2023 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 Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Cynthia Erlandson October 10, 2023 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
Phil L. Flott October 10, 2023 All of my life I have remained heartbroken that someone woke STC from recollecting the rest of the words of the poem. Reply
Paul A. Freeman October 10, 2023 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
Allegra Silberstein October 10, 2023 Delightful and good advice hidden for many poets who could use with an interruption. Reply
Roy Eugene Peterson October 10, 2023 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
James A. Tweedie October 10, 2023 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 October 11, 2023 I love it! You have weaved a completely new and refreshing verse out of the Porlock guy. Reply
Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Mr Tweedie, this is superb. You are are an inspirational word-spinner. Reply
Jeff Eardley October 10, 2023 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
Joseph S. Salemi October 10, 2023 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
Geoffrey Smagacz October 11, 2023 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
Paul A. Freeman October 11, 2023 The Porlock man knocks. Samuel Taylor Coleridge is soon lost for words. Reply
Shamik Banerjee October 11, 2023 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
Shamik Banerjee October 11, 2023 Thank you so much for reading my piece, Mr. Tweedie, and I’m glad you like it. Reply
Anna J. Arredondo October 12, 2023 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
Shamik Banerjee October 12, 2023 This poem is on a whole new level, Anna. Loved it! Thank you for sharing. Reply
Steven Kent October 12, 2023 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
Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 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
Susan Jarvis Bryant October 12, 2023 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 October 12, 2023 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 October 12, 2023 Excellent, Susan–not one I’d quickly have guessed was from you. What about one on the Mariner, or …? Reply
Susan Jarvis Bryant October 12, 2023 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
Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 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
Talbot October 12, 2023 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 October 25, 2023 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
Jeff Eardley October 12, 2023 Julian, I love the “ghost of broken spells” and the punchline limerick. This is a great piece. Thank you. Reply
Julian D. Woodruff October 12, 2023 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
Patrick Murtha October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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 October 13, 2023 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.
Mia October 19, 2023 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
BDW October 22, 2023 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
lilli October 30, 2023 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
