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A few months ago, friend of the blog, and, really, not exaggerating, poet of note, Phillip A. Ellis, sent me a few lines he had composed in honor of, or, well, however you want to read it, in reception of Coleridge’s famous Nightingale.

Let it serve to us as an introduction to the Nightingale poem, and a small cycle of articles that will deal with it.

Also, if you’re a subscriber to the blog, please do me a personal favor:

SHARE this post, and give Phillip some air time!

Poets have it incredibly difficult to get some real recognition in the indy scene. (You might remember that Phillip’s and my own correspondence was only established when I pirated a poem of his for this blog.)

So, let’s help him out. Not because I ask you to, but because his stuff is truly great! 🙂

It is a great honor for me, as a Spaniard, that my country produces artists of the quality of Joan Miro. Peace for Spain, during this difficult time my people are facing!

“About the Nightingale (A Variation Thereof)”

The night as trope is infinitely stale

even when it constrains the nightingale

enchanting even Coleridge or a Wordsworth

whose need of the sweetest song has sought the Bird’s worth

within a melody as fair as this

delightful lightness that we find amiss,

O dream of night—that ever sings thus, so—,

their night is ever stale and stays below

the sort of poetry that we may swear

is ever sweetest, sacred here or there,

where thought of God and saviours seems to rot him

who seeks in vain to stand upon the bottom

of what is being’s abyss, such is the breed

who seek, within the nightingale indeed,

a sacred sign for Heavenly harmony

that justifies their greedful carmine.

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