When I wrote 'so much grass' yesterday, I was referring to the kind you mow, not the kind you do, although the latter would equally have impeded my blog. Unlike Coleridge, I never wrote better under the influence of anything (except, possibly, unrequited love - creativity, as Freud intuited, sometimes being an expression of sublimated sex). The few surviving fragments of stuff written when stoned, in the days when I wrote when stoned, prove that for me grass was almost entirely consciousness razing.
I'm not sure that Coleridge's Kubla Khan would have benefited from being completed. Its fragmentary nature adds to its perfection, like a sherd from a stained-glass window, or an artist who dies young.
The lines from Kubla Khan, 'Weave a circle round him thrice, and close your eyes with holy dread, for he on honeydew hath fed, and drunk the milk of paradise', gave rise to the practice of a master at my school of encouraging boys to stand on a chair, around which three chalk lines had been drawn, and recite fragments of poetry. The master was Frank McEachran - 'Kek' - and he called the recitations, 'Spells'. Kek, who had taught and inspired the poet WH Auden and fought in the Spanish Civil War, was the model for Hector in Alan Bennett's recent play, 'The History Boys', although I gather Bennett never met him.
While I remember him well, I was only taught by Kek on a handful of occasions, being too talentless to be in the top english sets - sitting instead in the second division alongside the (now) newspaper columnist and former editor of the Independent on Sunday, Stephen Glover. As well as having more pocket money, Stevie was cleverer and more erudite than me, although, being more angst-ridden, I wrote better poetry.
I do at least still have a signed copy of one of Kek's books, 'Freedom the Only End'. On the flysheet he has written, 'Private faces in public places are wiser and nicer than public faces in private places', which I only now realise is a quote from his protégé Auden.