Saturday, September 3, 2011

The Most Lamentable, Tragical, yet Predictable Death of Percy Shelley

This is something of a play...still in progress. 
 

LORD BYRON
Sad Mary, holding the burnt up ashes
of the sea-changéd scribe who sweetened all
our days, only to bittersome your nights,
Take his luckless remains to the tomb. Place them
so high so they can a dusty beacon
be to all who seek and wonder in Rome.

MARY SHELLEY
Thank you, Lord Byron, for these most warm and
comforting words. What should I say, my friends?
Bysshe was a husband overwhelmed too soon,
and a poet too untimely dampened.
I will keep his heart as a tender, yet
ghoulish, reminder of the days we had.

EDWARD TRELAWNY
And I will be the one to pluck his still
unblemish'd heart from the dying embers!
My moustache bespeaks me fit for this task!
But Mary, have you yet heard about the
dream that Percy had in which Allegra
rose from the sea as if to speak with him.

LORD BYRON
Yes, sir, we know my daughter beckoned him
to the waves. The newly dead have a
fearsome power over we who live, and
might convince a weary man, burdened with the
woe this life heaps up, to foredo himself.
In spite of this, we should not blame the girl.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Set aside your dewy napkin, dear wife

Set aside your dewy napkin, dear wife,
For I see in your eyes a calming sway
That soothed me always in our early life
When I could be convinced, but not today.
No longer will my pride-filled subjects gaze
Upon this supreme throne of dread and awe,
But heedlessly pass luxurious days
That openly mock and flout at my law.
Smoke and filth are my tributes here. Those sweet
Spicy wafts and timely slaughters that filled
My senses pure have stopped, and I regreet
The morning sky with all my joy now killed.
So, today, I will sit myself in that regal seat
In all my splendid rage. I will glister
Over them in my robe of flames,
And they will touch the ground. Nor blister,
Burn, nor quenchless thirst upon their bodies soft
Will steer me from this vengeful course once I'm full aloft.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

My locks are loosed from their melony sphere

My locks are loosed from their melony sphere,
And autumn's creeping chill begins to frost
My skin and bones. Winter is almost here
Wherein everything that has not been lost
Will wither and become a timeless heap.
And I, new subject to the brutal blast
That beats us all in winter's icy deep,
Will feel the gust that no man can outlast.
But till then, this old heart pumps through the frore,
Safely warmed by the joys here and to meet
Of keen thoughtful beauty unknown before
In green springtime or the summerday's heat.
   Though my body begins its fall apart,
   We must not speak so of my vibrant heart.