A Reflection on Coleridge’s Poem “To a Friend Who Expressed to Me His Desire to Write no More Poetry”

I have written epics on American history. In perfect form. I have written epics on English Mythology, doing what Tolkien wished to do---his question was my inspiration. I have written Byronic Heroes who fought the demons of my own soul. I have written a thousand or so short poems of various degrees of quality---some might even say, true poesy. I have written cogently on both subjects of Math and Humanity. I have mastered two philosophies, Platonic Forms and Existentialism. I am mastering a third, Epicureanism. I have found kernels which prove God's existence.

I come to this poem, and humbly I say I haven't written anything so beautiful. At first, I figure a friend would encourage another friend to write poetry---Charles Lamb was a lamb of a man. But, as I read it, unable to penetrate the verse, I start to find poison, Achilles, Hight Castalie---that is to be cast on a lying path. I find a true friend. And I read Charles Lamb's poetry. I see the sort of thing I see in the modern poet. That if I were their friend, I would tell them to stop writing it.

Yet, I follow his advice, too. Not because I haven't written anything good, but because there is nowhere left to write. And mystically, he predicts me with his allusion to Auld Lang Syne. The mystery of the Prophets. 

I believe I, too, have written so much over the years. I have mastered poetry. I have mastered my thoughts. Now, rather, I wish to tell what others have spoken. What others have written. For I have a knack for telling the hidden secrets of another's verse. Even the things they do not know or see. And in that is the ministry I have. To draw forth the precious out of the worthless, as God said to Jeremiah. For what is all of this poetry even I write?

Where do I improve? Tell me. I have written in perfect verse the critical moment of American History. I have written in beautiful poesy the Mythology of England. I have touched every subject under the sun---I know no other to be explored. What is within me, is completely exhausted. Yet, I have it in me to write. What can I improve upon with my poetry? Written every Tall Tale again, written even a Pseudepigraphal Gospel. Short of writing a verse of scripture, I have no other mountain to climb. And no scripture, I am afraid, shall ever pour forth from my pen if I am to remain an honest man.

There is nowhere left in poetry. Nor is there anywhere left in fiction. I have written worlds deep, rich---Trilogies the caliber of War and Peace, Novellas of literature like Austen or Melville. I've written my first taste of poetry like Eliot---I was told. I was told, "Your production is Godly." Godly, as in praising God... Yet, it is not godlike. It is the fruit of an imagination which was given to me as a child. My whole life, up to about fifteen, was invented worlds. As a grown up, it shifts to poetry. And finally, as a Sage, it ought to end in essay.

What is the sage? Simply, the man who finds God's Word on his own. And with one more leap, I shall be a disciple.

And more importantly, why ought I write anything more? If it is not to discover what others have found?

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. The Complete Poems. Edited by William Keach. "To a Friend Who Declared His Intention of Writing No More Poetry" (pp. 125 - 126).  Penguin Classics, 2004. Text.