From Where does Poetic Inspiration Come?
So here I sit feeling scholarly
While reading the poems of Coleridge
Thinking they’ll inspire me to write
Something worth your while to read
But his inspiration is so removed
From my life and thus, probably, yours.
How much do I know about an albatross
When I live in a land locked town?
And a medieval tale of Christabel
Who feels abandoned by her father
As he cares for the daughter of his friend
Who was apparently raped by ruffians?
The romance of these tales
Is so removed from my life here
That inspiration to write
Seems little by you to be desired,
Yet here I sit and with my pen
Writing of nothing but how all
Seems dull and old, yet day
Has itself renewed while water
And dust remain the same.
Somehow the combinations of all
Seem to inspire, perhaps divinely,
The renewal of each new day
So that none is ever the same
Though seasons come and go
In their own plain way
And Coleridge seemed to speak
Of renewal on the sea
And nature supernaturally reviving
Even while poor old Christabel
Seems to have grown tired of Geraldine
And I probably did too
So poor old Samuel can’t inspire
If I grow old and lack desire
To find the renewal in new day.
No doubt, it’s true, I have to see
In each day what’s new
And not beleaguer STC
With needing me to inspire.
How can he, if it’s not my desire
to pull the poetry from his grave
Telling tales of days gone away
When my day is born anew?
And yet, it is true
That I love that old guy
And his friend, Wordsworth, too
Because, in fact, they really do
Inspire me to write
Every day, even if it’s dull.
That this is dull is more my lack
Of remembering some deep emotion
From my life while I sit and write
And read their poems. I have to seek
The things in my life that mean
So much, or at least they did.
It’s of those things I should write
Because that’s what Wordsworth said…
March 2023
About This Poem
This one is about how many times I taught a poem or author and had an outcry of boredom. Kids aren't alone in that. I read a lot of poetry that doesn't strike my fancy, or I just don't get it. And because of that I move on. Life is to short for bad books and bad poetry. The same goes for writing poetry. Sometimes you just can't do it because there is nothing you feel inspired to wax poetic about. I stand by Wordsworth's comment that poetry is intense emotion recollected in solitude. That probably explains why kids don't get into it as much. Granted, most of their emotions are intense because it's the first time they've had them. But emotions are very singular for an individual and getting that intensity across to others effectively is not easy. As you age more poems make sense. That doesn't make them good, but at least you get them. That's what I'm trying to get at in this poem.
The picture is of an albatross in Hawaii because "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Coleridge has an albatross central to its storyline. And it also answers the question I posed in the poem about how much I know about the albatross. (Now I know a bit, but nothing when I first read the poem some 40-50 years ago.)
