Born on August 4, 1792, the life and works of Percy Bysshe Shelley exemplify English Romanticism in both its extremes of joyous ecstasy and brooding despair. Romanticism’s major themes—restlessness and brooding, rebellion against authority, interchange with nature, the power of the visionary imagination and of poetry, the pursuit of ideal love, and the untamed spirit ever in search of freedom—all of these Shelley exemplified in the way he lived his life and live on in the substantial body of work that he left the world after his legendary death by drowning at age 29. From the beginning of his writing career at the age of 17, throughout his life, and even to the present day, the very name of Shelley has evoked either the strongest vehemence or the warmest praise, bordering on worship. More than any other English Romantic writer, with the possible exception of his friend George Gordon, Lord Byron, Shelley’s life and reputation have had a history and life of their own apart from the reputation of his various works, and one that contiued to evolve even after his death from drowning at the age of 29.

Though Shelley’s works will never be read by the masses, at least the spirit of his wish in “Ode to the West Wind” is perhaps closer to coming true today than he would have dared imagine:

Ode to the West Wind

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear!
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?


Source: Poetry Foundation

Bunları da Sevebilirsiniz

  Eskimiş paltosunun delik cebinden, istem dışı kendini intihara sürükleyen parmağı üşüyordu. Elinden geldiğince evin dönüş yolunu uzatmaya çalışıyor, çaresizliğin içinde boğulan düşüncelerini hayatta tutmaya çabalıyordu. ‘’ Süt!’’ diye fısıldıyordu boşluğa farkında olmadan. Bir yandan bu sözcüğü kimsenin duymasını istemiyor, bir yandan ise sanki bir yardım çığlığı atıyor gibiydi. Karısının öfkeli bakışlarından yorgun düştüğünden, son …


Belki de yarın gözlerimizi açtığımızda, baktığımız Dünya’nın her bir metrekaresi değişmiş olacak.Gördüklerimiz, görmediklerimiz ve göreceklerimizin gerçekliği bizi her gün bir adım daha şaşırtacak.Böyle bir hayatın içinde sanatın ve içimizdeki kelimelerin dışa vurumu da farklı bir boyuta taşınacak.Belki de sadece hayal gücümüzden akan cümleler bir makine ile hayatın sayfalarını dolduracak, belki de hayatın sayfaları bizim hayal gücümüzdeki kelimelere bambaşka boyutlara getirecek.Hayata attığımız ve atacağımız buna benzer adımlar tasarımda …


Yazar: Emma Sutton Çevirmen: Şeyma Nur Demiröz Geçtiğimiz yıl, dünyadaki birçok ülkede Virginia Woolf eserleri halka açık hale geldi.  Bunu kutlamak isteyen Emma Sutton, Woolf’un “A Simple Melody”[1] adlı öyküsünü ve de yazarın “hakikate en yakın şey” olarak tanımladığı müziğin onun üzerindeki etkisini yakından inceliyor. Mektuplarından ve günlüklerinden de anlaşılabileceği üzere müzik; Virginia Woolf ve çağdaşları için sosyal …

Önceki / Previous Berceste / Berceste*
Sonraki / Next Suhan Lalettayin + Zeynep Mar