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Post by deuce on Feb 23, 2016 6:51:38 GMT -5
This one from RH Barlow, an early Mythos author and REH fan...
R. E. H.
Died June 11, 1936
Conan, the warrior king, lies stricken dead
Beneath a sky of cryptic stars; the lute
That was his laughter stilled, and sadly mute
Upon the chilling earth his youthful head.
There sounds for him no more the clamorous fray,
But dirges now, where once the trumpet loud:
About him press old memories for shroud,
And ended is the conflict of the day.
Death spilled the blood of him who loved the fight
As men love mistresses, and fought it well—
His fair young flesh is marble where he fell
With broken sword that vanquished all but Night;
And as of mythic kings our words must speak
Of Conan now, who roves where dreamers seek.
~ R.H. Barlow ~
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Post by BlackHeart on Feb 24, 2016 16:21:11 GMT -5
Didnt heard of this before, man. Its nice stuff... Wery nice
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Post by robp on Feb 26, 2016 6:48:02 GMT -5
Not seen that before either, thanks for posting
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Post by deuce on Feb 26, 2016 8:29:31 GMT -5
Didnt heard of this before, man. Its nice stuff... Wery nice Glad you enjoyed it, BH. BTW, I put this thread on the "fan" board for a reason. Anybody else is welcome to post their own REH tribute poems on this thread.
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Post by Von K on Feb 29, 2016 7:54:19 GMT -5
Here's mine agin'...
~:In a Texas Town:~
In a Texas town, in the stifling heat, In a tiny room by night, A keyboard clicked and clattered, And a voice boomed bold and bright,
Where a solitary author Was pounding out his tales Of Kull and Kane and Conan To make pulp market sales.
On an Underwood typewriter Of ebony and gold He wrote three times as many yarns As every one he sold.
He earned as much as the best man there, For writing was his passion. Though the pulps are crumbling into dust His words are still in fashion.
He’ll always be remembered For the tales through which he powered. That town was Cross Plains, Texas, And his name was Bob E Howard.
End
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Post by Von K on Feb 29, 2016 8:03:40 GMT -5
To Robert Ervin Howard
By Wade Wellman
Alas, the thread of life, not nearly spun, Has clipped before it's time; the pulsing fire That spurred your soul with thunder, sword, and lyre Has flickered out. The blasting of the gun That spoke for Kane, the savage desert sun That gleamed on Spanish treasures,--fables dire Were swept away by grief, which built your pyre And crushed your life before the heights were won.
Had you but lived beyond the night I came Into this sullen world, when tramping feet Plunged all of Europe down the path of war! My heart had known a brother in the street, And sensed the vapor of your spirits flame; But you had gone away three years before.
-June 24th, 1964
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Post by deuce on Feb 29, 2016 12:58:38 GMT -5
Here's mine agin' ...
~:In a Texas Town:~In a Texas town, in the stifling heat, In a tiny room by night, A keyboard clicked and clattered, And a voice boomed bold and bright, Where a solitary author Was pounding out his tales Of Kull and Kane and Conan To make pulp market sales. On an Underwood typewriter Of ebony and gold He wrote three times as many yarns As every one he sold. He earned as much as the best man there, For writing was his passion. Though the pulps are crumbling into dust His words are still in fashion. He’ll always be remembered For the tales through which he powered. That town was Cross Plains, Texas, And his name was Bob E Howard. End I always liked that one, VK. Hopefully others will post their own.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Jan 20, 2018 15:52:49 GMT -5
At VonK's suggestion, I'm reposting this poem here. Thanks again, Von, for letting me know about this thread....
In memory of Robert E. Howard
I wish I could’ve shared a drink with you And listened as you spoke ‘bout the things you suffered through We could’ve talked ‘bout your stories—and what you were into I’d of sat there with ya—that whole night thru’
I’d of loved to heard you rant—and curse and swear and cuss Go on—get it all out . . . I don’t mind if you fuss I’d rather catch an earful . . . if you feel you must Just hang in here with me, partner, we’ve much to discuss
Did you know how highly valued you and your works are? I know it don’t seem likely, as we sit in this here bar (by the side of th’ road) But your words . . . they’ll touch folks—folks near and far You, my friend—where I come from . . . you’re a star
I know those problems you got loom big and ugly and dark But you should know you’re loved, man . . . you’ve left your mark Yeah—I know you been thinking of endin’ your own tiny little spark But I wish you’d stayed with us, and created new hero arcs
Yeah, I’d loved to have held a sword to your throat In one of those mock fights where you punched, slashed and smote ‘Pull that pistol, buster,’ you might’ve later wrote But we’ll never know now—at least you did leave a note
All fled, all done, so lift me on the pyre That’s pretty dark, man . . . that’s pretty, damn dire The feast is over and the lamps expire Your body lays so still—but I hate to light that fire…
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Post by themirrorthief on Aug 23, 2022 1:19:09 GMT -5
hey Bob sleep well your memory is alive maybe forever your words live on your fears still haunt your hand reaches far far like the darkness that plagues our vigin minds that Valhalla where you live now must be glorious with lots of ale and no end to the stories say hi to Billy the Kid and those ancient mariners you wrote about in their rickety ships they sailed without fear and their lives you made clear so good cheer Bob with your mind keen as the sharpest blade
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