On this day one hundred and ninety-nine years ago, Shelley was cremated on a desolate Italian beach. The last one to stand guard over Shelley’s cremation was Trelawny, the man whose need for approval caused him to build the un-seaworthy vessel that killed his friend. He stood on that beach amid the stench of burning flesh and the showering sparks, the sea winds lifting his long hair, until the final ember died. Then he packed up Shelley’s ashes and dispatched them to the English cemetery in Rome.
This despite the fact that I can't spell either of their names (had to look both up & then copy and paste.)
I struggle to respect any person who does not respect the sea. The kind of pathological ego that imagines itself capable of dominating even the littlest ocean by sheer force of will alone simply beggars the imagination.
Favorite Poet: Wislawa Szymborska
Second Fave: Czeslaw Milosz
This despite the fact that I can't spell either of their names (had to look both up & then copy and paste.)
I struggle to respect any person who does not respect the sea. The kind of pathological ego that imagines itself capable of dominating even the littlest ocean by sheer force of will alone simply beggars the imagination.
You and I see it exactly the same way, Gares. What monstrous egotism Shelley displayed here. Again, I love the poetry, not the man.
These (Polish?) poems are unknown to me. Intending to rectify that now.