O' requiem of the dead poets Alighted your vigor, Your ancient souls do rest in the grave. Your words course through me... The subtle, inauspicious meanings That the madman sees and says, "Aha, it says nothing." So little is said that is said Loud, bold and obnoxious. Inebriation of subtle inquiries Subtle thoughts and subtle shadows Of thoughts. I ask, "Why do you need "A meaning that is loud, and bold "When Rhetoric favors ignorance? "However, subtle souls have taught me subtlety "And with that the mingling of all knowledge." Yet, it was foreseen that the man of inquiry Did not want revealed the heart of another man But to only look into a reflective pool. He did not want to share, or understand. Merely to have his own ideas shouted back at him. Thus, blood ran in the streets. Thus, dead were wheeled through the thoroughfares For seven days of revolution. All for loud, droning war songs And not the quiet voice of reason Understanding its world, And gaining from it packets of wisdom Which does not gallivant through the street Nor does it make its words an enchantment. It, rather, seeks to understand what others are too busy to understand And pass by, leaving its little packet of pollen upon the pistil To germinate into the next budding spring. While pseudo-philosophers war over who is right And who's brand of ideology shall be superior... We, the poets---who are long dead, or shall die--- Leave behind the subtlety of more ancient wisdoms Which the world, as it fights its wars Would some day soon find again And see there upon the page what folly it was That right and wrong were not to be won by the muzzle of a gun But were simply to be found, and rediscovered A thousand times by Us, the poets who are dead, or shall be dead.
First thing that becomes clear, the poem is describing Lesbian themes. Furthermore, the demonic presence is captured in the “Spell” which is the unnatural romantic love between women.
Coleridge seems to have been fantasizing about a love triangle between he, his wife and his paramour.
It makes sense, that Coleridge would entertain such ideas. He loved his wife, and his paramour. Frankly, the theme of the successful love triangle has been a strange one to espouse upon, though the poem is not explicitly about this.
The poem is merely a naughty daydream, giving the moral tone significance that the relationship is not right. The “Spell” as is the case, “Spell” in the traditions of the romantic poets is likened to a wicked thing.
Why the protagonist’s name is “Christabel”, frankly, duly understood I don’t believe the poem was finished for a reason. I think Coleridge had initially entertained the gruesome thought of bedding two women who were romantically involved, and played the subconscious moral play out in this little poem.
Coleridge is almost entertaining a modern attitude about it. Which, to say, I think in this regard the correct attitude is to understand the poem as Erotic, Lesbian, but to not shy away from the cultural taboos of the day. I don’t think Coleridge would be completely aware of why he was writing it, nor what he was writing.
It seems to me that the poem was a fancy which captured Coleridge, that he would have greatly desired a romantic ménage à trois between he and the two lovers of his life. Passively, though. The poem is not conscious of diving into the material, so neither is the reader consciously aware of the true meaning of the poem. There is a mystery of the Lesbian eroticism in the poem, disparaging it nonetheless. The tone is utterly negative, taken in the context that the woman has become the desired object of both a father and daughter. It is in effect bibliomancy, and should the poem continue it would most likely end in the father and daughter’s utter destruction. Hopefully the reader cannot assume that this theme is taken lightly, and is possibly why the poem was abandoned by its author, because the subject was inappropriate. Scandalous, even for today’s day and age.
There is something unnatural in the thought of two so closely related being romantically involved with the same person, therefore, it might be a testament to the utter disparity of adultery, that such thoughts will even be allowed to be entertained. It is a testament to how wrong sin is, that if there were a boundary broken by our modern standards, this one surely will not be. Which should disturb the reader’s opinion on the legality of Homo-eroticism, whether it is Malum in Se, or Malum Prohibitum.
When all philosophy fails
A man brings his cup to his lips.
He despairs Socrates,
Saying all love was for his hips.
He says, “All we know
“Is that beauty catches the eyes,
“Woman’s flesh upon my glans
“Is the only meaning I can find.
“And how I want to live;—
“I don’t care who has to suffer.”
A thousand writers lay before me
Their thoughts contained in the jars
Of wood pulp, ink and glue.
Numerous thoughts lay before me…
Seneca, Livy, Horace
There in used copies at the bookstore.
Where are they sold now,
New, in those beautiful Penguin and Oxford bindings?
I don’t see them on the shelves at my local book store.
Rather, I get one more rejection letter in the mail
Because I don’t sell a detergent.
I don’t sell deodorant.
I don’t sell left or right politiks.
Soon, that large library will wane
And what will be put in its place
Is the cacophonous voices
Of Fox News Analysts,
CNN and MSNBC commentators,
Politicians and the few Celebrity intellectuals.
No serious works of philosophy, religion,
Art or political science.
A thousand voices,
All shut up by populist opinions.
Slowly, we deteriorate,
Until the Reichstag is performed by the almighty dollar.
It’s performed, because all ethics are “Too emotional.”
All philosophy is “Merely speculation.”
Technocratic, we burn our books with our own opinions.
They don’t sell, so are thrown into the flame.
I read the famous poets.
None of them wrote like me.
None with the modern story telling element—
The clear language and imagery,
The thematic elements of our modern fantasies.
Why I couldn’t be squeezed into that little space
On the bookshelf I saw,
Why, even though there are thousands of famous writers,
Some I have never even laid eyes upon,
Why cannot I be a part of this tradition?
Rather, we burn Seneca with Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck and Rachel Maddow;
Piers Morgan, Anderson Cooper and Milo Yiannopoulos;
We bury Pride and Prejudice with Stephen King, Stephanie Meyers
And George R. R. Martin; Fifty Shades of Gray, Hunger Games
We praise poets like Ezra Pound—
Never reading the word salad of his
Which no man living can decipher;
I’m not even sure it’s meant to mean anything.
Then, of course, there is E. E. Cummings.
Does anyone read Wordsworth, Byron, Keats or Longfellow?
Essayists, of course, are college students
As Shane Dawson writes like he’s submitting a high school essay
And it prints and sells millions.
Emerson, Thoreau, Montaigne;—
Much more interesting… if they were given a shot.
Yet, I have to search the used book stores for Emerson and Montaigne.
They’re both slowly going out of fashion.
Both kindred souls…
Both so similar in their styles.
Plutarch I found, after some digging.
Herodotus tells me about Ancient Babylon,
Yet somehow the idiots online do not believe historians mentioned it.
A rich source of historical analysis,
Filled with Babylon, Persia, Media, Assyria, Egypt, Mesopotamia,
A Greek historian.
Yet… sadly there is online materials that would “prove”
These empires never existed.
Yale lectures that would even insinuate that they never did.
They find a “Sumerian” empire, and automatically say,
“Well there was no Babylon.”
Wholly forgetting that cultures call themselves by different names
Than other cultures. Germany in America is Deutschland in Germany.
Some idiot a long time from now might speciously believe
Germany never existed because they dug up German artifacts.
We’re dealing with a stupid generation
Because books aren’t read,
But podcasts are listened to.
There is not a touchstone to the past
Therefore, anything can be made up about it in the present.
And, my writing has touched the past.
But, they can find no place for it in that empty slot on the shelves.
Because, as it still remains,
I get rejected for having a racist character.
Wholly disposed, that the generation I was writing about
Was saturated by racism, and it was about their only sin most of them.
If we could excuse them of it, and wonder at how they were so far superior
To what we have today…
Perhaps we will have a more educated tomorrow
That doesn’t—as every movie seems to do—
Imprint their own values on the past.
Frankly, every movie you watch about history
Is ensconced in its present’s vices.
The best way to know what history was like
Was to read what was written at that time period.
Often, you’d find the most degenerate scoundrel
Had a heart of gold when compared to our modern man.
And that I find by reading history;
Experiencing history in what are called books.
But, today we’d like to invent it for ourselves
To shape it to our modern way of thinking.
Why can’t I be on those shelves
To represent modern man
As he truly is?
I respect our modern literati.
I consider the trait of elite intellectuals
To be apolitical and zealous for their fields.
Our first psychologist—
And all others are cheap imitations.
A roundabout way of saying we need to love.
I don’t argue against Darwin.
I simply care little
About him when there are gas chambers.
He is the inevitable belief held
By all atheists.
It is how I know it is false.
Marx is not an opponent;—
He’s an axiom
If nobody levies the dam.