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One of England’s best-known poems, “Kubla Khan,” was written by Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834). Waking from an Opium-induced dream, he was 55 lines into this epic when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. This poem would have been much longer if not for the legendary, “Man from Porlock.” Coleridge wrote about the incident himself, referring to himself in the third person:
On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!
Who was the “Man from Porlock?” asks UK poet Jeff Eardley with this challenge. In a poem, write your version of who he was and post it in the comments below. Mr. Eardley’s sample is below:
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The Man from Porlock
I am the man from Porlock,
You can put the blame on me,
For interrupting Samuel,
In his joyful reverie.
For it was I, supplying him,
With all that dope he used,
That rendered him incapable,
Befuddled and bemused.
His epic may have been too long,
For most of us to bear,
So Mr. Taylor Coleridge,
Aren’t you glad I stopped you there?
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Put yours in the comments below!
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The world of people, it is often said,
Is made up of two kinds:
Some (or most) of them, instead
Of being listeners, think that no one minds
If all they do is talk and talk.
Such was Coleridge’s man from Porlock.
All of my life I have remained heartbroken that someone woke STC from recollecting the rest of the words of the poem.
The Porlock tramp slept in a barn
Then knocked on Sam’s front door, and darn;
Sam’s opiate daze
left a Xanadu haze
where once there was Kubla and Khan.
This is delightful.
Delightful and good advice hidden for many poets who could use with an interruption.
Sam heard at the door a great knock.
A wizard he met from Porlock.
When his words one would hear,
He made thoughts disappear.
Sam swore he had met a Warlock.
The Man from Porlock
I’m sorry,” said the FedEx man,
Who stood outside my flat’s front door.
“Your signature, please, if you can,”
He said. “Just that, and nothing more.”
I signed, and quickly locked him out,
I had, you see, some verse to write,
But then he knocked again, a clout
That shook the house and snuffed the light.
“I’m sorry” said the FedEx man,
But here’s the parcel that I brought,
It’s from a man named Kubla Khan,
Or some such foreign-sounding lot.”
“From who?” I asked. “You mean, from WHOM!”
He said, correcting my mistake.
I grabbed the nearest thing, a broom,
And grabbed the box and tried to make
Him leave by sweeping him away.
But there he stood as if there were
A few things more he had to say.
“I live and work in Porlock, sir,”
“And though I feel hesitant,
I think it fair to ask if you
Could spare a tip of ten percent.
If not, a sixpence ought to do.”
I slammed and locked the door and then
Returned to write what I had dreamt.
But nothing more flowed from my pen,
My inspiration had been spent.
The only thing I could recall?
His “Kubla Khan,” and that was all.
I love it! You have weaved a completely new and refreshing verse out of the Porlock guy.
Mr Tweedie, this is superb. You are are an inspirational word-spinner.
I am the man from Porlock,
A purveyor of fine bread,
To Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
Who is oft times off his head.
He says my interruptions,
Are a noise he doesn’t want.
He thought that he could “Kubla Khan,”
But now he “Kubla Khan’t.”
Brilliant!
Some jerk rapped the Coleridge door —
What’s clear is Sam thought him a bore.
An hour of chatter
On God-knows-what matter
Gave us less “Kubla Khan,” and not more.
Knock knock. “Are you inside?” Knock knock.
“My good man, Samuel Coleridge.
Tis your cousin from old Porlock.
A shilling for the toll bridge?”
The Porlock man knocks.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
is soon lost for words.
Although I’ve heard about this topic before, I never gave it much thought. But thanks to your lovely poem, Jeff, as it inspired me to write the following lines:
The Porlock Mystery
By reading this, what I can glean
Is that ‘obstructor’ must have been
A future man who played that trick
(With accurate arithmetic),
Full-knowing that in mankind’s course,
His act would spark a great discourse.
Lol. Shamik!
Marvelous! Give us more, please!
Thank you so much for reading my piece, Mr. Tweedie, and I’m glad you like it.
Ditto!
He’s known for rapping on a door,
But he’s to blame for so much more…
The Man from Porlock is the smell
of dinner burning in the kitchen;
The husband (whom you love so well)
who comes with clothes that need your stitchin’;
The chauffeur needs of child and teen;
A leaky pipe; a fender dent;
The dog whose vomit you must clean;
The laundry piles that won’t relent;
The coworker who overstays
her welcome; deadlines imminent;
The tasks of over-busy days
that spit you out at night all spent…
First known for rapping at a door —
Now he’s become a metaphor.
Excellent, as usual! I’ll send this one to my daughters.
Anna, this is brilliant!!!
This poem is on a whole new level, Anna. Loved it! Thank you for sharing.
Introducing A Man From Porlock
Mr. Coleridge, I’m from Porlock Trust
And we are more than just a bit concerned.
Your account is overdrawn again;
This kind of thing must stop, it simply must.
You and I have had a talk before;
I frankly thought the lesson had been learned,
Yet it’s only been a week since then
And though I really hate to be a bore—
Oh, you’re writing? Well, I’ll keep it short,
Be on my way before the hour has turned.
I still need to call on other men;
Please turn to page 13 of my report. . . .
Can I say a huge thank you for all who contributed to this, and you can blame Evan for coming up with the idea in the first place. The Man from Porlock has a lot to answer for and I hope that we can all re-visit this iconic verse once more. Best wishes to all on SCP.
Jeff, I love this challenge – thank you! I was going to go the way of Anna Arrendondo with the metaphor idea. but decided to change tack after reading a poem I could not possibly better. Great one, Anna!
Knock, Knock…
I’m Porlock, here to check your Muse
Is kept on track. She mustn’t stray
To snoozy realms that won’t enthuse,
Where convoluted odes confuse
And windbags like to play.
I once trod miles of fertile ground
Where choking smoke swirled all around
To Xanadu where Kubla Khan began
(from Coleridge’s pen) to prattle on
Beyond the thrills of sinuous rills till man
And beast were fleeing from the pleasure dome.
If you, fair poet, hear a knock,
It’s Porlock, here to make words shine.
I’m here to silence, here to block
All Muses working round the clock
Beyond the final line.
Susan, I have been ticking off the hours today, knowing that it would come along, and here it is.
I have a vision of you, complete with slightly out of tune dulcimer, sitting with Mike on the beach by the sunless sea as you create this super contribution. My snoozy realms will enthuse so much more after reading this. Thank you again.
Excellent, Susan–not one I’d quickly have guessed was from you. What about one on the Mariner, or …?
Thank you, Jeff and Julian.
Jeff, you always make me smile. I’m glad you enjoyed my offering… I could have written all afternoon on the subject… but I heard a knock… a persistent knock…
And Julian, thank you for your appreciation… I got to the line… “stanzas, stanzas everywhere… and there was a knock… a persistent knock…
I love yours, by the way! Great stuff!
The Man from Porlock
“A man from Porlock”—that indeed I am.
“The man from Porlock,” though, it’s better put.
As Gilbert wrote, “all other kinds are sham”;
why, will be in short order understood.
Sam Coleridge, whom I spirited away
from work that to this day rests incomplete,
failed to explain it. What he had to say
was like the chirping of a parakeet.
You see, I am the ghost of broken spells.
The abandoned, the unfinished I adore.
Justice insists I be the one who tells
this truth: I am art’s great liberator.
At my touch, masterworks elude the state
of stale, mundane completion. I make sure
that artists’ zeal must cease or else abate,
so that their projects gain unique allure.
Think of the slaves of Michelangelo,
or Stuart’s portrait of George Washington,
Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. And so
it goes: the list is long—but never done!
So now you know. I’ve just one thing to add,
Which is … which is …
A Confession
Home once more, Coleridge, lost in a fever,
had forgotten his poem. A breather
left the poet in doubt
as to why he’d gone out:
no, he couldn’t remember that either.
As someone who was inspired to write a poem (at least partially) by Xanadu, this Porlock matter has continuously tickled me. It’s such a strange occurrence (and might even be fantasy itself). Anywho . . .
I shambled wayward as a bum
(And wore a beard to hide my face),
When all at once I found I’d come
To Sammy T. Coleridge’s place;
Beside his bed, bent o’er the page,
I found him scribbling in a rage.
Beneath his feet a half-lit pipe,
And on his face a fevered dream;
It’s clear he’d found a thing so ripe
It caused his eyes and soul to beam.
And what’s a friend but an earnest foe?
I knocked quite loud to break his flow.
His head flew up, his back erect,
The light diminished in his eyes;
I saw him toil to recollect
The thought that honey-dew implies.
He screamed aloud and slapped his brow.
We’ll see who gets that book-deal now . . . .
Wow Talbot, this is great!!!
Yep, this one is great, Talbot.
My fave lines, ‘And what’s a friend but an earnest foe? / I knocked quite loud to break his flow.’
The final line rounded the poem off nicely, too.
Julian, I love the “ghost of broken spells” and the punchline limerick. This is a great piece. Thank you.
Thanks, Jeff
Actually there should have been an extra dropped line after “The Man from Porlock”: I intended the limerick as a 2nd entry, not really related to the 1st (or to the Man from Porlock, actually).
You trothed to me your heart. Shall you again
Make schism? For what? I’ve loved you true and long,
And long impregnated with pangs of pain,
With mirth and merriment your manly song.
Whose breath breathed life into those elven strings?
Your Sara–from whom too soon, fool boy,
You’ve dissected yourself? You drink from springs
Which flow with much remorse and little joy.
Are not my lips sufficient that you must sip
Of false illusion-inducing streams?
And, in a darker hour, your painted ship
Will strike a doldrum: who will set you free?
Some quaffed nepenthe will doom you. I knock.
Answer and follow my phantom to Porlock.
I should have added a brief introduction or a title. This is the Muse to Coleridge upon his relying on opium for his inspiration.
Patrick. This is a great work, worthy of repeat readings and for me, a new word, “nepenthe.”
Thank you for a super contribution.
Thank you for your kind words. If you have any recommendations on perfecting the poem, I’m all ears. The timing of Sara is incorrect. He married Sara in 1795, but they separated in 1804. “Kubla Khan” and “The Mariner” happened between; but “The Aeolian Harp” came slightly before.
As for nepenthe, I borrowed it from Poe, along with “quaff”–“quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore…” Poe’s narrator seemed to be laudinum or opium as well.
Thank you for another great challenge and such interesting poems to read.
I have enjoyed reading all of them.
The Porlock Posse
In times past when the man
From Porlock paid a visit, I find
I was little too amenable and kind;
Now it really has put me in a bind,
For not only has he moved in of late
But he has brought his sundry mates.
This bunch of motley girls and boys
Appear to have their fatal ploys
To reduce or rob me of my joys.
Though each has his dues and rates,
I try to ignore their insistent baits
But the dentist and optician
Are both on an strident mission,
They’ve painful ways to gain attention
I really do not need to mention
Their glee when I can’t escape
Their drills and tear- inducing scrapes.
The only ones that have resigned
Are the dietician and beautician,
For sadly they’ve been long ignored,
So they’ve made way for the physician
Who has a sharp way to draw blood
Both from the veins and piggybank.
Each day exhausted and in need of rest
I long to sit and write my best
But then the looming osteopath returns
And tells me I must walk for miles,
(It seems that I must change my style,
I really cannot abide his smirk and smile)
I work, I garden, cook, dust and clean
Does he have any idea what that means!
Affronted at his insistent tweaks
I take some time to repose and think.
I’ll write those rhymes I wake up with
Tomorrow, that’s when I’ll be really smart,
For once more I’ll have to make an early start
Today, as the decorator’s here to paint
The house, I so much hope he’ll be a saint
And be done by Christmas, as I have
A long list I must peruse forthwith,
(After I’ve put things back in place that is.)
I will write something worthy one day,
I know, but meanwhile the Porlocks
Can take all the blame. It is not my fault,
It is just my fate, in vain to struggle
And to strive but they would rather
Just not see me thrive. I am their victim
Such is life, I should have said
Go, take a hike, but now it is far too late
And that’s why my befuddled brain
Makes my verse verbose and dense
And well and truly second best.
A Waterfall in Xanadu
by Air Weelbed Suc
The waterfall was streaming down the rolling hills.
Faint, steamy clouds arose beside its many spills.
I longed to drink its water, follow down its rills.
For me, there could not be, I think, much greater thrills.
Such beauty in the world leaves one hot with chills.
Such loveliness helps one to face the harshest wills.
Such pretty peace helps one to face the hardest ills.
How can there be a waterfall that so fulfills?
But if I could get on one of its many sills,
I think those slopes so slippery with wet, white quills,
that I would fall forever down. Its edged shape kills.
And yet I wish I could pause where it lulls and mills,
because each flush along its way sweet love instills.
It is a shining series of divine untils.
Its gorgeous furrows leave one pink around the gills.
The glittering of drops, the shimmering, clear trills,
are like the scattering of crystal daffodils
in rainbowed arcs above divine and sunlit villes,
or gleaming silver flecks on radiator grills.
If I could hold it, keeping but its frothy frills,
with that alone, I know I’d be in heaven still.
Decades ago, Coleridge inspired, especially transcendentally, as in the above poem.
But even now, I continue to drawn inspiration from his work, especially “The Rime”.
The man from porlock
I am the man from porlock
I Supply
I kill
I ruin
I am the man from porlock
I am unnamed
all I have done is maimed
broken and destroyed lives around me
just to make a dollar
I am the man from porlock
there’s a beautiful kind of chaos that comes with disintegrating lives around you
making everyone choose
making people fight and kill just to lose
the ones they love
The ones they choose to shove
To get what they want