LEWTI; or The Circassian Love Chant
Halifax again. Flight unremarkable. Housemates (constant readers/ only readers) loverly.
We are reading the Romantic poets in Lit Landmines. The professor, oddly, confuses Wm. Blake with this den of dendrophiliacs and the mediocre "I AM"ers. Blake, sadly, had a sense of humility and humour and so cannot be conflated with the tag-team of self-indulgence that is contained within the teardribbled covers of the Lyrical Ballads. Here's an idea: if you do not believe in the value of form, meter, rhyme, or beauty that will be subjective to the person experiencing it, do not write poetry. Keep a diary. Arrange to have it burnt after your death. A love for things outside yourself is also helpful.
Coleridge may be worse than Wordsworth (a sadly inapplicable name, that), because he is a solipsist that wants to be someone else, namely Wordsworth. Plus, he has very unsound ideas about the wonder of a child's view of the world. Children are more accepting of the miraculous and cannot, therefore, appreciate it as much as a relatively openminded and considerate adult.
So, in conclusion: dear Romantic poets, eat an ass.
I think this may become an online entity solely devoted to mockin them thar Romatics. Ask me about my scurrilous verse that I am attempting to pass off as Coleridge's juvenilia.
We are reading the Romantic poets in Lit Landmines. The professor, oddly, confuses Wm. Blake with this den of dendrophiliacs and the mediocre "I AM"ers. Blake, sadly, had a sense of humility and humour and so cannot be conflated with the tag-team of self-indulgence that is contained within the teardribbled covers of the Lyrical Ballads. Here's an idea: if you do not believe in the value of form, meter, rhyme, or beauty that will be subjective to the person experiencing it, do not write poetry. Keep a diary. Arrange to have it burnt after your death. A love for things outside yourself is also helpful.
Coleridge may be worse than Wordsworth (a sadly inapplicable name, that), because he is a solipsist that wants to be someone else, namely Wordsworth. Plus, he has very unsound ideas about the wonder of a child's view of the world. Children are more accepting of the miraculous and cannot, therefore, appreciate it as much as a relatively openminded and considerate adult.
So, in conclusion: dear Romantic poets, eat an ass.
I think this may become an online entity solely devoted to mockin them thar Romatics. Ask me about my scurrilous verse that I am attempting to pass off as Coleridge's juvenilia.
posted by J at 12:56 PM
1 Comments:
I rarely mean anything that I say, and I can't say anything that I mean. You know that I love you. (Actually you probably don't, but now maybe you do.)
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