I don’t like Percy Bysshe Shelley.
Personally, I mean—his poetry is okay for the type (she says, grudgingly) but his life was a mess of his own making that spilled over into everyone else’s. And he didn’t really seem to give enough of a damn about that.
You can call me a prude or provincial or whatever, if you like, but I’ve always felt that if you want to embrace free love, you really ought to make sure that the people you want to freely embrace understand what freedom means to you before you snuggle up so they can decide what it will cost them, before anyone ends up in an asylum or wracked with guilt.
Or maybe that’s just me?*
Regardless, this is one of those times when I’m going to separate my feelings about the poet from my feelings about a poem, because Shelley wrote one that absolutely nails my feelings about winter, which are edging into the sociopathic.
In fact, I hate winter so much that I’m only offering one poem today, as in half an hour from the scheduling of this post, I will be driving my kids through the remains of last night’s storm, which didn’t leave enough behind to justify staying home, but did put a nice, glossy coating of ice on the streets.
I’m at the point where the only good thing about winter is its poetry (she says, grudgingly).
Well done, Mr. Shelley.
You putz.
________________________
*It isn’t. I told my MIL at breakfast this morning that I was doing an unflattering bit on him, and she said, “Oh, yes, he was a jerk. And selfish.” Then she smiled and said, “Isn’t it nice to know that for all his fuss and nonsense, his wife is more famous than he is?” Yes, ma’am.
Earful of Cider 