From the great-great niece of S.T. Colreridge

[mono]

Hello, everyone. I randomly found the below poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, great-great niece of the brilliant, and one of my personal favorite poets, Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Enjoy.



Death and the Lady

Turn in, my lord, she said;
As it were the Father of Sin
I have hated the Father of the Dead,
The slayer of my kin;
By the Father of the Living led,
Turn in, my lord, turn in.

We were foes of old; thy touch was cold,
But mine is warm as life ;
I have struggled and made thee loose thy hold,
I have turned aside the knife.
Despair itself in me was bold,
I have striven, and won the strife.

But that which conquered thee and rose
Again to earth descends ;
For the last time we have come to blows.
And the long combat ends.
The worst and secretest of foes,
Be now my friend of friends.

[Dan]

I was wondering if anyone had any ideas about S.T Coleridges poem Kubla Khan.....I'm having a hard time understanding what his dream meant or rather the representation, if there was any.Any basic thoughts,just looking for a different perspective.

[mono]

Keep in mind, Dan, that the dream apparently seemed driven by opium, a favorite drug of Coleridge's; also, allegedly, where the famous poem ends, Coleridge told, was not where the dream ended, as someone interrupted his writing and remembering the remains of the dream.
The beginning brings up the land stretching a total of "twice five miles;" however, Coleridge later writes that he only crossed five miles until he reached the ocean. A few parts of the work, I think, make hints at ancient mythology: "woman wailing for her demon-lover" could refer to Echo's continuous laments, "the shadow of the dome of pleasure" may bring up Circe's island kept for Odysseus, and the songs heard near the ocean could prove as those ever-attracting sirens near Charybdis and Scylla. The last lines explain, I think, the mysticism of dreams which fits as an amazing ending for an "unfinished" poem:
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Perhaps Coleridge feels that the escape through sleep and dreams provides the subjective Paradise, for there we live within the comforts of our own mind, under control. I hope this helps anyway. Good luck.

[mono]

Oddly enough, while paging through a book of compilations of love poems, I came across the same poet, Mary Coleridge. If anyone has interest, I thought to share. Enjoy.

My True Love Hath My Heart and I Have His

None ever was in love with me but grief.
She wooed me from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
And left me there forlorn.

The birds that in my garden would have sung,
She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
And left me there alone.

Grief, I have cursed thee often - now at last
To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
I love no love but thee.

[Eric, son of Chuck]

As the story goes (at least, the version I've heard of it) it was the great Wordsworth himself who interrupted S.T.C. Tragic...

Most folks are probably aware of this, but say ST Coleridge's initials outloud. He supposedly loved the 'ecstacy' likeness.