Summary

"The Human Cobras" is a reflective essay by Wolfstuff that draws parallels between the author's personal journey and the symbolic immortality of the snake, while paying homage to the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Abstract

In "The Human Cobras," Wolfstuff explores the theme of transformation and immortality, likening the shedding of one's old self to a snake shedding its skin. The essay delves into the author's profound connection with Shelley, whose philosophy resonates deeply with Wolfstuff's own views on poetry and its role in shaping the world. The author mourns Shelley's early demise through an elegiac poem, celebrating the enduring impact of Shelley's work. Wolfstuff's personal narrative is interwoven with a South American myth about a snake's encounter with death, emphasizing the cyclical nature of life and the idea that creative minds transcend physical limitations. The essay concludes with a nod to the ongoing influence of Shelley on the author's work, suggesting that the poet's spirit continues to inspire and validate Wolfstuff's creative endeavors.

Opinions

The author believes that poets, like Shelley, have a profound and unrecognized influence on the world, akin to legislators.
Wolfstuff is deeply moved by Shelley's work and life, feeling a personal loss at the poet's early death, which compelled him to write an elegy.
The essay conveys the idea that great thinkers and artists can achieve a form of immortality through their work, as their ideas continue to affect and inspire others.
Wolfstuff suggests that he shares a spiritual connection with Shelley, as if Shelley is an ever-present guide in his creative process.
The author humorously refers to the relationship between himself and Shelley as a "snake-skin joke," implying a shared understanding between them that transcends time.
Wolfstuff sees his own role as a poet in the tradition of Baudelaire, owning the world and aiming to awaken it through his work.

The Human Cobras

Me and Shelley

I shed my body like a cobra his skin — this, my friends is true joy

Galeano tells this wonderful tale:

God said to him, “Three canoes will pass down the river. In two of them, death will be traveling. If you guess which one is without death, I’ll liberate you from the shortness of life.”

The snake let pass the first canoe, which was laden with baskets of putrid meat. Nor did he pay attention to the second, which was full of people. The third looked empty, but when it arrived, he welcomed it. For this reason, the snake is immortal in the region of the Shipaiás. Every time he begins to get old, God presents him with a new skin.

I was well into my thirties when I first encountered Percy Bysshe Shelley. What struck me (and stole my heart in the process) right from the outset was his brave and shameless declaration in The Defense of Poetry that “Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”

Why, I thought, of course they are. Ever since the late 1960s, when I first laid eyes on a Baudelaire prose poem, this had been very clear to me, for Baudelaire very much laid down the law for me (and all other poets), a law that I have since followed: the poet owns the world and his duty is to wake it up.

I was so taken by Shelley and his life that when I discovered that on the 8th of July 1822, aged only 29, he went down with his boat and drowned in the Gulf of La Spezia off the coast of Sardinia, I felt compelled to write an elegy for him, a song that paid my tribute to this eternal legislator:

There is so much you have yet to conquer so many visions and dreams left uncaressed so many arrows in your quiver

Lay them down ever unconfessed

So very near to that final secret within grasp of your young tireless hand within sight of that final harbor

Why so soon I don’t understand

Promethean, your fire will ever be my light although the human heart expires into this stormy night

Muses weep as sails go down tender tears to mourn the passing and to forever move the hearts and tongues that appear here

Now you are lost to a hungry darkness ‘neath a shattering truth as yet unproclaimed though in the flight of your final arrow

You leave us a path carefully notched and aimed

Promethean, your fire will ever be my light although a human heart expired into that stormy night

Yet he lives. He only shed his body, like a cobra his skin. For he still rummages around in my heart, apparently oblivious to his own passing.

And he laughs. Often and heartily.

And I laugh with him, at this snake-skin joke: if they only knew, we knowingly wink at each other, as I keep writing and he nods his approval.

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Wolfstuff

So, who am I? Really really. I could tell you that I was born in northern Sweden during a snow storm, and subsequently…

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