As I sit and write with washing machine
churning and gurgling, filling with bubbles,
alone in a house, full o’ laughter and troubles,
I ponder on your poetry and the scene
you immortalised at such a young age.
Coleridge, did you know the heights you would reach,
in stanza, pentametre; words bold and sage
of nature, nurture in lofty speech,
capturing such moments by ink on page?
As you penned your words upon the bright moon,
was your subconscious spinning or churning
filling with stanzas, characters in sweet tune
of mariner’s rime; was such work brewing?
Your eternal words, soaked deep in this ground;
deeper than your marrow, in soil drowned.
Sonnet 31 of 100
I’ve recently been reading a fair amount of Coleridge and Blake, becoming enamoured by their stunning craft and way with words. The following are some thoughts on one of Coleridge’s early sonnets, ‘To the Autumnal Moon’