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.

What Poetry Is

I see many struggle with this question. And many answer it, by asking the question, and then telling the answer lies within themselves. Simply, who they are.

Truthfully, unless you're interesting, don't write poetry about yourself. Not even for yourself. As, poetry, unless it's coupled with wisdom, is a narcissistic task. Of selfishly delving deep into one's own things. Selfishly drawing out a portrait---getting more and more shallow--of you the artist.

If you cannot, by any means, relate to the world around you, don't write a single verse. Poetry, if about oneself, must be tainted with self-denial. It must be tainted by doubt, self reflection. It must peer into the failings---not the greatness. And if you do write a story of greatness, make sure you build a hero. Maybe a Byronic Hero, but a hero nonetheless to avoid the pathology of narcissism that poetry entails for the average writer.

Singing of love is a lute's charm, yet if it is not truly love? Why sing of it? If it is the same tired failure, of relationships failing because of one's own desire... then why write of it? Write rather of your failing toward your lover. That is a poem I haven't heard many do.

The Poem is an observation of the world around you. It is the decisive exploration of a thought. A poem is not a rambling of how great you are. Or how misunderstood. Rather, poetry ought to be---if it's well done---about something entirely new and alien, something wholly not of yourself. If it's to be done right, the poem should divert to conversations happening in the real world. As they relate to you, maybe. But, not simply your relation to yourself. You self-esteem.

The true poet is the one who draws forth wisdom, and relates it. A poem has the energy of an equation being solved, and wise men are the ones who get pleasure from it. For, to the average manchild and womanchild this involves work. Very unpopular, they'd rather the receding mess that is modern poetry, and obey the rule of self indulgence. "I, too, can be successful. I, too, if my words are pretty enough, can make it in this world." The ends are certain. It is the end of success, fame, affluence. It is not the ends of truth or learning or joy.

For this, the poet of modern day needs to put down the pen, as Coleridge said to Charles Lamb. For it is an asp's bite, driving oneself into the bitter revilings of narcissism. And so is true for any act of written word. Every word you write ought to be to succumbed to the world around you... not the world as it exists within your mind. That is true art.

The Hubris of the Modern Poet

I shall, in one fell swoop, interpret almost every amateur poet.

They are special, and they are offensive. They have great things to say, and go on and on about themselves and how special they are. True narcissists. They talk about their heroism, their failed love---on and on about how misunderstood they are. They get hundreds of followers who want to be special, too.

They have a hubris, which like many professional athletes is reinforced by their success. Maybe they are special? For, their story of how heroic they are---void of imagination, or theme, or crux, or content---tells all the simplistic story of how greatly misunderstood, how greatly wise they are. Nobody likes them... of course. They have great mysteries to tell us of themselves. They tell us the mystery of themselves, and its end is themselves.

There are a few poets whom this is not the case. And I typically will honor them by interpreting their work. They have heroic deeds. They have things to speak. They have observations, nuanced views, making the strange mundane, or making the mundane strange. They can rightly talk about themselves, for they have learned the subtle art of self-denial. The subtle art of self scathing. No true artist can be a poet unless they have that little man in them telling them and the world their failings.

The poets of modern day sing of themes... like a kaleidoscope being twirled around and around. Telling of failed love---making us horny. Is it truly skill? Is it anything worth writing? They garner their followers---for it seems the pack follows what mostly resembles their own craft. "Should that be successful, then so shall I."  Thus, the Instagram Poetry gets popular, sold for millions of dollars.

I don't mean to sneer, but if the whole interpretation of the poem is just a matter of getting some vague notion of you, I don't think that's a poem. Unless you have made an observation about the real world, or some real conundrum or mystery. Those who are true poets will understand this. The frustration of seeing the flocks tell of how special and offensive they are. No... what I write is offensive. Because I have the audacity to speak.

My Last Poem

Coleridge, some three hundred years ago
Wrote a poem to his beloved friend Charles Lamb.
A modern soul thinks friendship is knit with flattery,
But it is not so. By comparing Lamb to his beloved Burns
Who wrote the hymn of Auld Lang Syne,
It was like he was speaking to me.

I have drunk deep from the Aolian Mount
In my grandmastery of the craft,---
Any further and I shall be grasping for the bough
Of a bare tree half way between inspiration;
And at the end I shall drink the many poisons of bitterness.
This is my last poem. For Coleridge wisely said
To Dr. Lamb to be bounden to ministry...
For my destiny is rooted in my heavenly muse.
I properly look for my patronage for this art...
Yet, Maecenas is dead. For I will
Renounce the world's cares and its lying vanity.
I shall not drink the bane.

Purchase Here

Dear, Christopher Hitchens

Dear,
Chris

On a video with Vanity Fair, you mentioned there were multiple versions of the Ten Commandments. I had believed you, and looked at the verses you put down. One of those was Deuteronomy 34:27. Deuteronomy 34 stops at verse 12.

It also occurred to me that your Ten Commandments are being followed right now. And, the result has been catastrophic. I would say you laid down modern ethics nicely, in your Ten Commandments. And, it's brought so much disaster to the world. I can't even begin to start explaining the ways in which your Ten Commandments are insufficient. For one, you proscribe against disciplining children. That alone has brought catastrophic failure to the West. Then, you claim that someone ought not censure Homosexuals. That has created such division in the world today, because it's plainly wrong and foul. It is a purely hedonistic thing, and it make sex inconsequential. It makes sex a hobby. One toyed with by many, and the result is unwanted pregnancies and abortions. Aside from that, you greatly condemned rape. Which is very noble of you. It doesn't take a wise man to know that's wrong. But God had already condemned that under "Adultery". Which your abysmal understanding of scripture---and outright incompetence at even suggesting verses to read---shows you know absolutely nothing about the Bible or its morality.

I, however, do. And I've written much on the moral nature of the Ten Commandments, the greatest of them being the first. As, there is a need to believe in God's existence because without it men are fearful of death to the point where they will grind civilization to a halt if it means saving themselves from the inconvenience of death. Personally, I'd rather see more of the world than a little crappy Facebook avatar, and some cute graphics. I'd like to be free to move, eat, shop, and associate whenever and with whoever I want.

For your brother Peter's sake, I do not speak the full weight of my mind toward you. You are dead, and rightly your philosophy on life cannot work. It is proven not to. In five years we have gone from a flourishing society, to believing exactly what you do. And the result is tyranny, war, confusion and unrest. I believe when you passed, you had sparred with God in your tyrannical way, and God had given you your desire. To conform the world to your piss poor morals. And, we see it is disaster. So, relinquish yourself unto hell. Peter cannot be comforted in your salvation, you wretch. Because after receiving manifold counsel from him, and manifold warnings, you had hardened yourself and bitterly refuted your brother. And for that, you have shown yourself to be a fool. So, relinquish yourself to hell, you have failed. For our sake on the Earth so we do not have to suffer under your dictatorship of morals.

The Rose

I came upon a rose,
Whom---I thought boasting of her thistles,---
I asked, "Why boast thou of thine thistles?"
Then, seeing the rose had said,
"I had once thistles,
"Yet the love of my own soul
"Has shed them for the sake of those I loved,"
I realized the Rose was not boasting in her pride.

Can Men and Women be Friends?

Can a man and woman be platonic friends?
The answer is yes, if there is no attraction.
The answer is no, if one or both of them are beautiful.
Age is also a huge factor. If the two are separated by a generation.
But generally, if one of the two are beautiful,
It is reason to be distrustful, should your lover have the beautiful one as a friend.
If both friends are beautiful, just assume the adultery.

However, for the one who truly loves, 
They can be among the Naiads
And Heroes, and still retain their fidelity.
This one is usually obvious;
You have no feeling of distrust;
For in their every deed, they say "I love."

The Materialist and I

To the materialist,
Life is yet a battery
Where nerves are its acid;
It evolves over eons
Through a mutating gene's luck.
The Frog evolves a uterus; becomes the Toad.
Materials collide with materials---for eternity,---
Minds, matter, breath.

To I, life is Force.
And it is a wonder.
We exist only as Breath;
Our Mind, Heart, Soul,
Hormones, ligaments,
Glands and nerves;
They are only a part of us when we have life...
It is our Spirit---God breathed into Adam,

The Questions I Ask

Why don't people see what's right from wrong?
Why do people hurt one another?
Why do people not believe in Jesus?
Why are people so evil?
Why are questions deemed more noble than the answer?
Why is everyone a skeptic of what's plainly true?
Why does everyone need to be taught by one another?
Why does everyone have to reinvent a system of morals?
Why do the most intelligent men find answers?
Why do governments oppress people?
Why is freedom of speech not a given in every country on Earth?
Why is the Human Rights Charter ignored?
Why is the Constitution ignored?
Why did men in the seventeen hundreds know our rights were unalienable, when now that's even questioned?
Why doesn't everyone say, "Give me liberty, or give me death?"
Why is everyone a coward?
Why is everyone morally bankrupt?
If there were a righteous man within a hundred miles, let me find him.
If there were a wise woman within a thousand miles, let me find her.
The rights of the people are infringed, and I'd like to know why.
Why are sales more important than content?
Why is poetry considered "Untrue"?
Why do people believe that words have no meaning?
If this sentence were understood, doesn't that insinuate everything we question about meaning is a lie?
Why do strings of meaning tap into the Logos of the universe: Why is Lucretius discovering Newtonian Physics, and Milton hypothesizing the Atomic Bomb?
Why do poets prophecy?
Why is Love the muse of the great ones? I can answer this, but it's still has even greater mysteries.
Why is math more precious than language arts these days?
If people read more poetry, wouldn't they have less time for idle minds?
Why do Literary Critics snob at the greatest letters?
Why does everyone have a different opinion, and why are they often wrong?
Why can't people relate to the real world?
Why is beauty not patronized in the arts?
Why is truth so self evident, yet everyone pretends it not to be so?
Why are we born knowing the way, and how do we stray from that path so quickly?
Why are Tao and Logos so similar?
Why are the sages always affirming what the Bible says?
If the Roman Church burned all the books, why were they so careful to preserve them?
If the Library of Alexandria wasn't burned, would we have any more noteworthy classics still being read today? Likely, I deem it not.
Why do the stars tell the story of Jesus?
Why is there so much proof that Jesus is the Christ, yet everyone pretends like it isn't there?
More importantly, do people know the proof that Jesus is the Christ, and maybe they aren't pretending?
Will God damn someone for ignorance? This I don't know.
Why is racism a worst crime than theft these days?
If Racism were a three, cussing would be a two, and homosexuality would be a ten; yet, we have it all backward.
Why is adultery considered noble, when it obviously hurts so many people?
Why is Homosexuality considered noble, when no society can function justly which accepts it?

Those and many like it are the questions I ask. Questions for poets.