This is the second poem in a series I’m working on. You can read the first one here. This one is about the relationship of Humphry Davy and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The title is taken from one of Davy’s Bakerian Lectures. Thanks for reading, and feel free to comment.


On Some Chemical Agencies of Electricity


The poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge is come to London

to give some lectures on Shakespeare, of which one

concerning Hamlet, in two years’ time, will save the play

from the likes of Dr. Johnson and August Schlegel.


Tonight he calls upon an old friend from Bristol,

Humphry Davy, now a Fellow of the Royal Society

and regular celebrity of Albemarle Street.

Still, he resembles the dark-eyed youth


who used to pass the green bag of nitrous oxide

to Coleridge, pinching the mouth of the bag

between his fingers and trying not to laugh

at something that was funny only to himself.


Along with Robert Southey, they would spend

the lamplight of the hospital laboratory at Bristol

afterhours, draped over a chair with lungs of nitrous,

feeling the hum and throb of iron in the blood


that Coleridge once said made him feel

like the sound a harp makes, or that made

Davy exclaim, after twenty quarts of gas,

that nothing existed except thoughts.


Since then, Davy has gotten full lectureship,

and plays to packed amphitheaters like a magician.

He makes a nugget of potassium dance

over water and burst into flames of lavender.


He asks the beautiful woman in the front row

if she can please hold the bellows for him,

or connect the battery for proper electrolysis.

Always smiling handsomely, always the showman.


This screw-haired boy from backwater Cornwall

has discovered six new elements

and remade Lavoisier’s definition of acids,

to the humiliation of the French elite.


But Coleridge is another matter.

His second try at newspaper publisher

has failed, and before that, the Wordsworths

politely kicked him out of Kenswick.


He’s left his wife in Bristol, and lost

a good deal of his annuity from Wedgwood.

On his most recent trip home from Malta

he surrendered to the pain of constipation—


what he described as “dead Filth impaling the gut”—

from using sometimes two quarts of laudanum a week,

and squatted on the surgeon’s table for his enema,

balancing on his knees as the ship scudded forth.


His skin is aqueous and pale as cheese.

His hair is like corn silk, oily and flared,

and clings to the rim of his damp forehead.

He wears no cravat, and his redingote is pilling.


In a separate drawing room Davy demonstrates

the flow of electricity through a dish of alum salt,

guided invisibly from stacks of zinc and copper saucers,

as though the very aether could be wrung like cow’s milk,


quintessence drawn through platina wires

and made to kiss the salt and start it frothing

like a child who blows bubbles through a straw

of ryegrass into a bowl of heavy cream.


How can they not think of Prometheus

as they remark on the Galvanic, and stoop

and squint at the silent batteries left

and the swelling, bubbling salt right?


How else to imagine the metaphysical

become pure metaphor, but by summoning

the occult and the mythological,

the old tropes of creation and generation?


No more an enfant terrible of Bristol’s

Pneumatic Institute, an earnest pupil of Kant

declaring brashly that nothing exists but thought,

now Davy wields a Voltaic fire


and turns his thoughts into existence,

at will plucking questions from his mind

and giving substance to their answers

in the form of white, crumbling beads.


Davy says the oxide has a metal base

he’s decided to call alumium, and cites

Pott and Vauquelin on the differences

between alum and lime and chalk.


He says it’s only a matter of time

before he isolates the pure metal form

as he’s already done with potassium

and sodium, magnium and calcium.


How little it all seems to cost,

the thinking impossible to detect

like the stillness of the batteries,

observed only through its effect.


Coleridge is quick to remark how

chemistry has a way of turning

its priests into sacrifices, and cites

Karl Scheele and the great Joseph Priestley,


then asks if Davy has that old breathing machine

that James Watt built for them at Bristol,

and why don’t they cook up some nitrate

of ammoniac in one of those empty retorts?


He can almost imagine how his fingertips

would hum pleasantly, and pressure against

the wall of his chest would float his head

with only the barest strand anchoring.


Even the thought is enough to animate

the eyes out of their dark craters,

the body itself stirred by the hope

of some analgesic for its own weight.


And wouldn’t it be nice to carouse

the streets of lamplit London

just as they did down the Avon Gorge,

passing the Hippocrene gas back and forth?


But Davy says quite carefully that he’s

used the last of his batch for a seminar,

and besides his workshop isn’t set up

at the moment for making any more.


Just as well, Coleridge replies, the hour’s late

and he must get his carriage on the road.

Once more they attend to the alum salt,

tapping the white crust from the electrode,


the mineral all but decomposed

in a crucible of milky soup

as oxygen steams on the surface

like a fog whipping the top of a lake.


Soon Coleridge will return to Allan Bank

where Dorothy will remark to her brother

how their friend looks “unburdened by sleep.”

The love of his life, Sara Hutchinson,


will leave for Wales, her farewell acutely

formal, rebuking his sympathies one last time,

and there will be nothing left of him but lectures

and lixivium of half-finished poems.


Not long after the carriage has gone,

Davy retires to his rocaille study,

to the scrolled arms of a scarlet settee,

and squeezes his head between his palms,

and reaches underneath his seat

for a bag made of green silk.

R. Charboneau

One thought on “Studies in Aluminum II

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