Pic up is from Sunday at Lunch...Sky wasn't quite that color, at least on my monitor!...but was very much like Pygmy Owl Sunset post...it was Pink....happens when Soft Clouds are behind Half Dome...as it happens, I've been trying to sort out several poems, not mine, old ones, from the Romantics, Wordsworth and Colerridge, and rereading STC's Kubla Kahn, I took note how like the Valley it is!!!...hmmph...this a bit hard to reach!...Robert Graves says one can look at poems 'slant wise'...I'm not sure what he thought he meant in describing this, which is often the case with poem commentaries, but, anyway, I have a notion...'slant wise' is to just sense the poem, and actually kinda detective like (intuit!), see it's origins...anyway, I can't do this post with out a lot of quotes...STC wrote Kubla Kahn after waking from a dream...and the Romantics were always reaching outside themselves, trying to sense Nature, People, or here, a Dream...famously, the Ancient Mariner in STC's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, disreguards the Albatross, and the whole poems is working out of, I dont know, sensing the Albatross!....
quote from wiki's Rime take:
As penance for shooting the albatross, the Mariner, driven by guilt, is forced to wander the earth, tell his story, and teach a lesson to those he meets:
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
After relating the story, the Mariner leaves, and the Wedding Guest returns home, and wakes the next morning "a sadder and a wiser man".
end quote
Now, Kubla Kahn was a real person, a ruler of Old China, and visited by Marco Polo, and before napping, STC had been reading about Kubla's 'park'...
from wiki's take on Kubla Kahn...
The book Coleridge was reading before he fell asleep was Purchas, his Pilgrimage, or Relations of the World and Religions Observed in All Ages and Places Discovered , from the Creation to the Present, by the English clergyman and geographer Samuel Purchas, first written in 1613. The book contained a brief description of Xanadu, the summer capital of the Mongol ruler Kublai Khan. The text about Xanadu in Purchas, His Pilgrimage, which Coleridge admitted he did not remember exactly, was:
"In Xandu did Cublai Can build a stately Pallace, encompassing sixteen miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfull streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure, which may be moved from place to place.
end quote
Now, STC thought of his poem Kubla Kahn, as a fragment...actually it looks to be three fragments, which are themselves kinda disjointed--all very dream like!!!...and he pretty much kept it to himself and close friends, until Lord Byorn pushed him to publish it...but that's an aside!!!....what's curious is how like the Valley it is!!!...if one looks 'slant wise'....the Fountain is the Centerpiece, as the Falls are hereabout...and the Dome, well, lots of Domes...but over all, Kubla's Xanadu was a Park...and as for STC's extravagance!...well, one could write like that back then...the writing is very Muir like too!!..
wiki's link to Project Gutenberg...
(beginning fragment of poem)...
KUBLA KHAN
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea. 5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
Now, in wiki's take, is mention that STC composed The Lime Tree Bower My Prison at about the same time as Kubla Kahn, which got my attention, as Lime Tree was, actually, the poem I was, and have for a very long time, trying to sort out!!!...I did a commentary on Lime Tree on old GEnie Online Forum in...1986!!...I just get frustrated with all the stuff said about poetry, and just went through Lime Tree line by line to show how a poem actually works...as it happens, Lime Tree is, historically, like a transition poem between the days of rhyme and rigid forms and more modern verse...but what I value it for, it is too a transition poem from kinda court poems with set motifs, to really seeing stuff...seeing Nature and People...but before I grab it...let me post up this one by Wordworth, which has seeing Nature, and seeing People, with a very touching twist...I was lucky to find this poem!...
from Poem Hunter site...
A Narrow Girdle of Rough Stones and Crags
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
A rude and natural causeway, interposed
Between the water and a winding slope
Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore
Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:
And there myself and two beloved Friends,
One calm September morning, ere the mist
Had altogether yielded to the sun,
Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.
----Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we
Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,
It was our occupation to observe
Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore
--
Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,
Each on the other heaped, along the line
Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,
Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft
Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard,
That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,
Suddenly halting now--a lifeless stand!
And starting off again with freak as sudden;
In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,
Making report of an invisible breeze
That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,
Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.
--And often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty.
Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,
Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.
--So fared we that bright morning: from the fields
Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth
Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.
Delighted much to listen to those sounds,
And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced
Along the indented shore; when suddenly,
Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen
Before us, on a point of jutting land,
The tall and upright figure of a Man
Attired in peasant's garb, who stood alone,
Angling beside the margin of the lake.
'Improvident and reckless,' we exclaimed,
'The Man must be, who thus can lose a day
Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire
Is ample, and some little might be stored
Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.'
Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached
Close to the spot where with his rod and line
He stood alone; whereat he turned his head
To greet us--and we saw a Mam worn down
By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks
And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean
That for my single self I looked at them,
Forgetful of the body they sustained.--
Too weak to labour in the harvest field,
The Man was using his best skill to gain
A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake
That knew not of his wants. I will not say
What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how
The happy idleness of that sweet morn,
With all its lovely images, was changed
To serious musing and to self-reproach.
Nor did we fail to see within ourselves
What need there is to be reserved in speech,
And temper all our thoughts with charity.
--Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,
My Friend, Myself, and She who then received
The same admonishment, have called the place
By a memorial name, uncouth indeed
As e'er by mariner was given to bay
Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;
And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears.
William Wordsworth
and here is Lime Tree...from poets.org...
This Lime Tree Bower My Prison
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| by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring dell, of which I told;
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,
That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
Of the blue clay-stone.
Now, my friends emerge
Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles
Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,
In the great City pent, winning thy way
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!
And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,
Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.
A delight
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue
Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes
'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path across the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,
While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
end quotes....
Now, I'm having tech problem doing post.
line breaks get lost, and I have to do them, and fortunatle,
each line
begins with cap!...but I mistype, and accidentally delete!...eesh...
anyway,
one last bit about Xanadu, from wiki...(editied some more tonight,
day later...)
quote
Today, only ruins remain,
surrounded by a grassy mound
that was once the city walls.
Since 2002, restoration effort has been undertaken.
In June 2012, Xanadu was made a World Heritage Site.
end quote
hmmph...I cant edit anymore this post!!...so misspells will
and such will be about....dont want another redo!
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