Answer 77 - Sadly, this answer eludes me

I sang of the dancing stars,
    I sang of the daedal Earth,
And of Heaven - and the giant wars,
    And Love, and Death, and Birth -
        And then I changed my pipings -
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
       I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
       It breaks in our bosom and then
            we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
      At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

I found a book of poetry by Shelley in the cabinet here at the cottage.  This stanza I find comforting, because I realize humans have always been in the throws of pining for a lost age, and assurance that the golden age is long gone, never to return.


So I'm reading through it, and realizing that, at the time, it must have been scandalous.  All that unencumbered sighing and passion and Oh Love!  Oh Misery!  and bosoms and woe...

It was a time of 'free love' - Shelley and Byron trotting around the countryside, boys with pretty faces wooing the women of England and beyond.  And even with his clubbed foot, Lord Byron could make his way into a woman's boudoir with a word.  He was a poet after all.  Fiery, tempestuous, tortured... ah... so attractive to say many ladies of leisure.

The question for me, though, is
What does it take to be a scandalous poet in the 21st Century?

I remember a comic discussing a rock&roll scandal a few years ago.  Slash had been kicked out of Guns & Roses, to which the comic quipped, "What the hell do you have to do to get kicked out of Guns & Roses?"

I won't elaborate on his speculation - because it was graphic and crude, but I think the speculation is the point.

What, exactly, do you have to do to be considered scandalous in the 21st century?  Poet, painter, performance artist?  I mean, slicing yourself up on stage while screaming or reading your poetry for that matter, consuming excrement, etc... it's all been done - it's not scandalous - it's tired, it's derivative, it's so last Tuesday.


Sadly, this answer eludes me today.  I shutter to think of what the answer might be.  (I know, I just said 'I shutter to think of it,' but give me a break - the first thing I read this morning was Shelley... "Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers.."   So I shutter, damn it.)

Still, I'll let you know.  Or maybe I won't.  At least not in polite company.