Wordsworth on the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
Posted: 03 Sep 2019, 20:39
V2:
Wordsworth on the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
Dorothy smiles sadly
as Coleridge lumbers up the stairs,
his losses growing,
his heart heaving like a widow's--
William having turned down "Christabel"
for the second edition,
the poem like a relative
too embarrassing to be seen with.
Worse, Coleridge's name will be purged
from the title page.
Coleridge sighs
as he lies down on a thin mattress,
slips into an undercurrent
of laudanum's dreams,
only to surface hours later,
the sense of failure
overwhelming him.
He senses Wordsworth’s feeling:
that he tolerated
the Mariner
the first time around,
and would love to drop it
from this edition.
He knows what William’s
argument would be:
that it has no more place
in the Ballads
than operatic singing would have
in the middle
of a conversation.
He will never be a poet.
William is the one with talent.
Coleridge’s sighs grow heavier,
like surf, a storm just offshore:
he has always lacked focus,
and with his laudanum habits
he will forever be like a man
digging a hole in the desert,
its walls collapsing
sand.
note: this is a much revised version of an old poem, once published in a site long, long ago
V1:
Wordsworth on the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
I.
Dorothy smiles sadly
as Coleridge lumbers up the stairs,
his losses growing,
his heart heaving like a widow's--
William having turned down "Christabel"
for the second edition,
the poem like a relative
too embarrassing to be seen with.
Worse, Coleridge's name will be purged
from the title page.
Coleridge sighs heavily
as he lies down on a thin mattress,
slips into an undercurrent
of laudanum's dreams,
only to surface hours later,
the sense of failure
overwhelming him.
II.
Too bad, Wordsworth thinks,
that he tolerated
the Mariner
the first time around.
How can he suggest
that they drop it?
It has no more place
in the Ballads
than operatic singing would have
in the middle
of a conversation.
Still, what can he do?
Besides, Coleridge
is steadfastly
grateful.
And as a poet
Coleridge is no threat.
He is too distracted.
With his laudanum habits
he'll always be like a man
digging a hole
in the desert,
its walls
collapsing
sand.
note: this is a much revised version of an old poem, once published in a site long, long ago
Wordsworth on the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
Dorothy smiles sadly
as Coleridge lumbers up the stairs,
his losses growing,
his heart heaving like a widow's--
William having turned down "Christabel"
for the second edition,
the poem like a relative
too embarrassing to be seen with.
Worse, Coleridge's name will be purged
from the title page.
Coleridge sighs
as he lies down on a thin mattress,
slips into an undercurrent
of laudanum's dreams,
only to surface hours later,
the sense of failure
overwhelming him.
He senses Wordsworth’s feeling:
that he tolerated
the Mariner
the first time around,
and would love to drop it
from this edition.
He knows what William’s
argument would be:
that it has no more place
in the Ballads
than operatic singing would have
in the middle
of a conversation.
He will never be a poet.
William is the one with talent.
Coleridge’s sighs grow heavier,
like surf, a storm just offshore:
he has always lacked focus,
and with his laudanum habits
he will forever be like a man
digging a hole in the desert,
its walls collapsing
sand.
note: this is a much revised version of an old poem, once published in a site long, long ago
V1:
Wordsworth on the Second Edition of Lyrical Ballads
I.
Dorothy smiles sadly
as Coleridge lumbers up the stairs,
his losses growing,
his heart heaving like a widow's--
William having turned down "Christabel"
for the second edition,
the poem like a relative
too embarrassing to be seen with.
Worse, Coleridge's name will be purged
from the title page.
Coleridge sighs heavily
as he lies down on a thin mattress,
slips into an undercurrent
of laudanum's dreams,
only to surface hours later,
the sense of failure
overwhelming him.
II.
Too bad, Wordsworth thinks,
that he tolerated
the Mariner
the first time around.
How can he suggest
that they drop it?
It has no more place
in the Ballads
than operatic singing would have
in the middle
of a conversation.
Still, what can he do?
Besides, Coleridge
is steadfastly
grateful.
And as a poet
Coleridge is no threat.
He is too distracted.
With his laudanum habits
he'll always be like a man
digging a hole
in the desert,
its walls
collapsing
sand.
note: this is a much revised version of an old poem, once published in a site long, long ago