/lit/ - Literature

Which book should I buy for his poems?

>>9040719
Having sex one != being a Chad

>>8423597

I'm reading the Ode to the West Wind by Percy Bysshe Shelley and I'm trying to make a connection with this second generation poet and the darker but still nature-focused WWI poetry of say Rupert Brooke's The Soldier.

Do any of you have keen insight on poetry in this era and would like to share your thoughts on any comparisons or contrasts between them? (much like 1st and 2nd generation Romantics are rather similarly in more than one way)

every time I look at this image I try to imagine how a real human could actually fucking look like this

http://www.ourcivilisation.com/smartboard/shop/anecdtes/index.htm

>SHELLEY ... was always reading; at his meals a book lay by his side, on the table, open. Tea and toast were often neglected, his author seldom; his mutton and potatoes might grow cold; his interest in a work never cooled. He invariably sallied forth, book in hand, reading to himself, if he was alone; if he had a companion reading aloud. He took a volume to bed with him, and read as long as his candle lasted; he then slept-impatiently, no doubt-until it was light, and he recommenced reading at the early dawn.... In consequence of this great watching, and of almost incessant reading, he would often fall asleep in the day-time-dropping off in a moment—like an infant. He often quietly transferred himself from his chair to the floor, and slept soundly on the carpet, and in the winter upon the rug, basking in the warmth like a cat; and like a cat his little round head was roasted before a blazing fire. If anyone humanely covered the poor head to shield it from the heat, the covering was impatiently put aside in his sleep....

>Southey was addicted to reading his terrible epics before they were printed—to anyone who seemed to be a fit subject for the cruel experiment. He soon set his eyes on the newcomer, and one day having effected the caption of Shelley, he immediately lodged him securely in a little study up-stairs, carefully locking the door upon himself and his prisoner and putting the key in his waistcoat-pocket. There was a window in the room, it is true, but it was so high above the ground that Baron Trenck himself would not have attempted it. `Now you shall be delighted,' Southey said; `but sit down.' Poor Bysshe sighed, and took his seat at the table. The author seated himself opposite, and placing his MS. on the table before him, began to read slowly and distinctly. The poem, if I mistake not, was `The Curse of Kehamah'. Charmed with his own composition the admiring author read on, varying his voice occasionally, to point out the finer passages and invite applause. There was no commendation; no criticism; all was hushed. This was strange. Southey raised his eyes from the neatly written MS.: Shelley had disappeared. This was still more strange. Escape was impossible; every precaution had been taken, yet he had vanished. Shelley had glided noiselessly from his chair to the floor, and the insensible young Vandal lay buried in profound sleep underneath the table.


Read on and post the best ones you can find!

The GOAT lyricist and political visionary.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

>>7082441
No, that's To Autumn. Kubla Khan is half-finished.

The GOAT

>owning, throwing and collecting knives
>abstaining from all pornography while still being sexually hedonistic
>Being anti capitalist, but also anti communist and offering no alternative yet endlessly engaging both ideologies
>Littering
>loitering
>being vegan/vegetarian for health reasons but not caring about animal cruelty
>typing on a mechanical keyboard
>lifting enough to have a passable body
>drinking coffee and staying up all night
>walking to invigorate the mind during breaks in writing

This is unfinished and not delineated yet, and also probably obscure, but I'd love to see if /lit/ thinks if there's something worth refining:

To Shelley

When England burned, your trumpet spitted fire to swell the flames that rose and scorched the slug that cowered in his regal carriage, stained by broken glass and smoked by the blood of a broken people.

When Peter felt the gory sabre-law come desecrate his peaceful field, you saw, and spoke with voice that woke in anger that red hour's obscure compeers, and built a monument in verse to all the honoured martyrs of that August day.

When canon law and propertied expediency held lovers cold in chains and bound them to that beaten road, you witnessed, and shed light through glowing bars upon them, illuminating their tempestuous day.

This is unfinished and not delineated yet, and also probably obscure, but I'd love to see if /lit/ thinks if there's something worth refining:

To Shelley

When England burned, your trumpet spitted fire to swell the flames that rose and scorched the slug that cowered in his regal carriage, stained by broken glass and smoked by the blood of a broken people.

When Peter felt the gory sabre-law come desecrate his peaceful field, you saw, and spoke with voice that woke in anger that red hour's obscure compeers, and built a monument to all the honoured martyrs of that August day.

When canon law and propertied expediency held lovers cold in chains and bound them to that beaten road, you witnessed, and shed light through glowing bars upon them, illuminating their tempestuous day.

Swift as a spirit hastening to his task
Of glory & of good, the Sun sprang forth
Rejoicing in his splendour, and the mask

Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth.
The smokeless altars of the mountain snows
Flamed above crimson clouds, and at the birth

Of light, the Ocean's orison arose
To which the birds tempered their matin lay,
All flowers in field or forest which unclose

Their trembling eyelids to the kiss of day,
Swinging their censers in the element,
With orient incense lit by the new ray

Burned slow and inconsumably, and sent
Their odorous sighs up to the smiling air,
And in succession due, did Continent,

Isle, Ocean, and all things that in them wear
The form and character of mortal mould
Rise as the Sun their father rose, to bear

Their portion of the toil which he of old
Took as his own and then imposed on them;

>You have 10 seconds to post anything half as beautiful in English verse

Always and forever

Shelley is my favourite poet, and I'm reading his translation of fragments of Goethe's Faust. It's absolutely brilliant and now I want to read both parts in full. What's the best complete English translation of Faust?

>looking for beauty in prose

lel, that's like looking for marriage in prostitutes. fucking turboplebs l2poetry.

So many to choose, but it will always be Shelley.

You can bring back one lost work of classical literature. Which one do you choose?

How long does it take for you to write a poem?

Both of us are wimps. Would probably be 50/50.

You can spend an evening with one writer from history.

Who do you choose?

>>5359128
#TYBPBS

Hey, /lit/.
Who would win in a sailboat race: Lord Byron or Percy Shelley?