#setebos

[noyhoul]

this is my oc Setebos

I don’t know how to use tumblr

[drakontomalloi]

Albert Pinkham Ryder - The Tempest. 1892 (reworked 1896/1918)

[detroitlib]

Joseph Urban (May 26, 1872 – July 10, 1933) 

Austrian-American architect, illustrator and scenic designer. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Frontispiece “’Preliminary Sketch of Setebos.’ By Joseph Urban” from Caliban by the Yellow Sands By Percy MacKaye. Garden City, new York: Doubleday, Page & Company, 1916.

[sperg-burglar]

"Jezmnd - Setebos" by Polaire de Cloù

[imissmynana]

Shameless plugging of my boyfriends band because I always do as I'm told.

[ungulatewar-blog]

I had no idea Setebos (Caliban's god in The Tempest) is an actual moon of Uranus, discovered in 1999. How poetically just. 

From Robert Browning's poem "Caliban Upon Setebos": 

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!

'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.

[ingridrichter]

Setebos

Setebos is given as the name of a god worshipped by the Patagonians.

Who's Who and What's What in Shakespeare by Evangeline M. O'Connor, 1978.

[litechoking]

Setebos (Ted Hughes)

Who could play Miranda?  Only you. Ferdinand -- only me.  And it was like that, yes, it was like that.  I never questioned. Your mother  Played Prospero, flying her magic in  To stage the Masque, and bless the marriage,  Eavesdropping on the undervoices  Of the honeymooners in Paris  And smiling on the stair at her reflection  In the dark wall. My wreckage  was all of a sudden a new wardrobe, unworn,  Even gold in my teeth. Ariel  Entertained us night and day.  The voices and sounds and sweet airs  Were our aura. Ariel was our aura.  Both of us alternated  Caliban our secret, who showed us  The sweetest, the freshest, the wildest  And loved us as we loved. Sycorax,  The rind of our garden’s emptied quince,  Bobbed in the hazy surf at the horizon  Offshore, in the wings  Of the heavens, like a director  Studying the scenes to come.  Then the script overtook us. Caliban  Reverted to type. I heard  The bellow in your voice  That made my nape-hair prickle when you sang  How you were freed from the Elm. I lay  In the labyrinth of a cowslip  Without a clue. I heard the Minotaur  Coming down its tunnel-groove  Of old faults deep and bitter. King Minos,  Alias Otto -- his bellow  Winding into murderous music. Which play  Were we in? Too late to find you  And get to my ship. The moon, off her moorings,  Tossed in tempest. Your bellowing song  Was a scream inside a bronze  Bull being roasted. The laughter  Of Sycorax was thunder and lightning  And black downpour. She hurled  Prospero’s head at me,  A bounding thunderbolt, a jumping cracker.  The moon’s horns  Plunged and tossed. I heard your cries  Bugling through the hot bronze:  "Who has dismembered us?" I crawled  Under a gabardine, hugging tight  All I could of me, hearing the cry  Now of hounds.