The Verse of REH

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One of the first REH poems I ever read, and a fine one for Halloween...



Which Will Scarcely Be Understood


Small poets sing of little, foolish things,

As more befitting to a shallow brain

That dreams not of pre-Atlantean kings,

Nor launches on that dark uncharted Main

That holds grim islands and unholy tides,

Where many a black mysterious secret hides.



True rime concerns her not with bursting buds,

The chirping bird, the lifting of the rose --

Save ebon blooms that swell in ghastly woods,

And that grim, voiceless bird that ever broods

Where through black boughs a wind of horror blows.



Oh, little singers, what know you of those

Ungodly, slimy shapes that glide and crawl!

Out of unreckoned gulfs when midnights fall,

To haunt a poet's slumbering, and close

Against his eyes thrust up their hissing head,

And mock him with their eyes so serpent-red?



Conceived and bred in blackened pits of hell,

The poems come that set the stars on fire;

Born of black maggots writhing in a shell

Men call a poet's skull -- an iron bell

Filled up with burning mist and golden mire.



The royal purple is a moldy shroud;

The laurel crown is cypress fixed with thorns;

The sword of fame, a sickle notched and dull;

The face of beauty is a grinning skull;

And ever in their souls' red caverns loud

The rattle of cloven hoofs and horns.



The poets know that justice is a lie,

That good and light are baubles filled with dust --

This world's slave-market where swine sell and buy,

This shambles where the howling cattle die,

Has blinded not their eyes with lies and lust.



Ring up the demons from the lower Pit,

Since Evil conquers goodness in the end;

Break down the Door and let the fires be lit,

And greet each slavering monster as a friend.



Let obscene shapes of Darkness ride the earth,

Let sacrificial smokes blot out the skies,

Let dying virgins glut the Black Gods' eyes,

And all the world resound with noisome mirth.



Break down the altars, let the streets run red,

Tramp down the race into the crawling slime;

Then where red Chaos lifts her serpent head,

The Fiend be praised, we'll pen the perfect rime.

~REH~

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Like Conan, REH was possessed of gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirths. We know from his friends that he spoke of suicide long before his mother became ill. Today is his birthday and this is the poem he wrote about the day of his birth.



I Praise My Nativity



Oh, evil the day that I was born, like a tale that a witch has told;

I came to birth on a bitter morn, when the sky was dim and cold.

The god that girds the loins of Fate and sends the nighttime rain,

He diced my game on an iron plate with dice carved out of pain.

"This for the shadow of hope," laughed he, as the numbers glinted up,

"This for a spell and this for hell, and this for the bitter cup."


A Shadow came out of the gloom of night and covered me with his cowl

That carried the curse of The Truer Sight and the blindness of the owl.

Oh, evil the day that I was born, triply I curse the day,

And I would to God I had died that morn and passed like the ocean spray.



~REH~

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Beyond the cool "eerily" refrain, this is interesting because of the mention of Seabury Quinn's occult detective, Jules de Grandin. The whole thing doesn't make much sense, but the flow of words works just fine. There are plenty of traditional ballads that possess a similar lack of "making sense".


A Weird Ballad

The werewolf came across the hill,

(Eerily, wind, sing eerily)

The vampire drank at the Devil's still,

And the wind was bowing eerily.

Eerily, eerily, blow, wind, blow,

With a heave and a hey, so eerily.


The bale-fire burned and the pot smoked blue,

(Eerily, wind, sing eerily)

And Jules de Grandin rose from the brew.

And the wind was bowing eerily.

Eerily, eerily, blow, wind, blow,

With a heave and a hey, so eerily.


His breath was strong as a witch's spell,

(Eerily, wind, blow eerily)

And his whiskers bristled like horns o' hell.

And the wind was bowing eerily.

Eerily, eerily, blow, wind, blow,

With a heave and a hey, so eerily
.

The Devil dropped dead and the werewolf fled,

(Eerily, wind, blow eerily)

And the vampire waggled his ghastly head.

And the wind was bowing eerily.

Eerily, eerily, blow, wind, blow,

With a heave and a hey, so eerily.


~ Robert E. Howard ~

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My first impressions of The Collected Poetry of Robert E. Howard back in 2009:


leogrin.com/CimmerianBlog/the-collected-poetry-of-robert-e-howard-first-impressions/

[deuce]

Apr 23, 2016 13:42:27 GMT -5 deuce said:

The Battle of Clontarf was fought 1002yrs ago today.


Song Before Clontarf


Lean on your sword, red-bearded lord, and watch your victims crawl,

Under your feet they weakly beat the dust with their dying hands,

The red smokes roll from the serf's roof-pole and the chieftain's shattered hall --

But there are fires in the heather and a whetting of hungry brands.


The beaked prows loom like clouds of doom along each broken port,

The monks lie still on the heathered hill among the fallen stones,

Over the land like a god you stand, our maidens howl for your sport --

But kites await in the heather to tear the flesh from your bones.


Clouds and smoke for a broken folk, a lash for a bended back --

Thus you roared when your crimson sword blotted the moon on high,

But the sea breaks and the world shakes to the battle's flying wrack,

And death booms out of the heather to nail you to the sky.


~ Robert E. Howard ~

(postmarked March 24, 1930)

!003 years ago today.

[buxom9sorceress]

Apr 24, 2017 16:47:25 GMT -5 deuce said:

Apr 23, 2016 13:42:27 GMT -5 deuce said:

The Battle of Clontarf was fought 1002yrs ago today.

Song Before Clontarf

Lean on your sword, red-bearded lord, and watch your victims crawl,

Under your feet they weakly beat the dust with their dying hands,

The red smokes roll from the serf's roof-pole and the chieftain's shattered hall --

But there are fires in the heather and a whetting of hungry brands.

The beaked prows loom like clouds of doom along each broken port,

The monks lie still on the heathered hill among the fallen stones,

Over the land like a god you stand, our maidens howl for your sport --

But kites await in the heather to tear the flesh from your bones.

Clouds and smoke for a broken folk, a lash for a bended back --

Thus you roared when your crimson sword blotted the moon on high,

But the sea breaks and the world shakes to the battle's flying wrack,

And death booms out of the heather to nail you to the sky.

~ Robert E. Howard ~

another grimly powerful poem from Howard.

And the very complex multiple rhyming is superb.

Any learning poet can get better just by studying the vast poetic talents of REH.



Bob was a giant bard who still towers above most other great poets.

[Von K]

Apr 24, 2017 21:02:38 GMT -5 buxom9sorceress said:

Bob was a giant bard who still towers above most other great poets.

I second that!

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Donald Sidney-Fryer knew Clark Ashton Smith and was a Guest of Honor at Howard Days.  He is widely considered to be one of the best living "traditional" poets.  Here he compares REH's verse to Kipling, Chesterton and Shakespeare.

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The Gates of Nineveh


These are the gates of Nineveh: here

Sargon came when his wars were won

Gazed at the turrets looming clear

Boldly etched in the morning sun


Down from his chariot Sargon came

Tossed his helmet upon the sand

Dropped his sword with its blade like flame

Stroked his beard with his empty hand


"Towers are flaunting their banners red

The people greet me with song and mirth

But a weird is on me," Sargon said

"And I see the end of the tribes of earth"

"Cities crumble, and chariots rust


I see through a fog that is strange and gray

All kingly things fade back to the dust

Even the gates of Nineveh"


~ Robert E. Howard ~

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The full version of this poem.


The Tide


Thus in my mood I love you,

In the drum of my heart’s swift beat,

In the lure of the skies above you

And the earth beneath your feet.



Now I can lift and crown you

With the moon’s white empery;

And I can crush and drown you

In my passion’s misty sea.



I can swing you high and higher

Than any man of the earth,

Draw you through stars and fire

To lands of the ultimate birth.



Were I like this forever

You’d but too little to give,

But here tonight we sever,

For life loves life to live.



And the further a man may travel

The further may he fall,

And the skein that I must unravel

Was never meant for all.



What do you know of glory,

Of the heights that I have trod?

Or the shadows grim and hoary

That hide my face from God?



Would you understand my story,

My torments and my hopes?

Or the dark red Purgatory

Where my soul in horror gropes?



Now I am man and lover

Rising with you at side

To peaks where the splendors hover—

But drifting with the tide.



And the tide? It is mine to shake it,

To battle the winds and spray;

To batter the tide and break it

Or batter my heart away.



So I leave you—that you never

The grim day have to face

When I would be gone forever

And a stranger in my place.



Tonight, tonight we sever,

For my race is my own race.

~ REH ~

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Chief Of The Matabeles

The warm veldt spread beneath the tropic sun,

I climbed a rocky kopje and sat down.

The baboons chattered, full of rage

At me, invader of their dens, but came not near me.

So I sat, and watched the cattle grazing on the veldt.

Herded by small, half-naked Kaffir boys,

Who, as they herded, played their Kaffir games,

And ran about the veldt, waving their wooden spears

In mimic war.

A jackal slunk from bush to bush

Behind a kopje. Furtive, sly,

Stalking a small veldt-deer, who caught his scent

And fled away. And o’er across the veldt I saw

The kraal of Umlaganna,

Chief of the Matabeles.

Then up the kopje came old Umengan,

One of the oldest men of the kraal,

A counselor of the chief of the Matabeles,

And one who knew the legends of his race.

Umengan sat down near me. “Baas,” said he,

“Does not the veldt seem peaceful at this time?

Aye, so it is. With cattle grazing placidly,

Herded by umfan, the young warriors,

And yonder in the kraal the women cook

And they brew the beer for feasting, revel, dance.

Yet I have seen the plains drenched with blood,

Where warriors leaped and smote and thrust and slew,

And knob-sticks smote and whirled and smote again,

And spears were crimson-red from point to grip,

’Twas there that Lobengula made his stand,

’Twas there the British armies broke his power.

“When I was young,” Umengan said, “I followed many a chief,

Fought many a fight. Chaka, I followed first, the Zulu chief.

Chaka the bloody, Chaka the Wild Beast. There was a king!

When we had smote our foes so none remained,

And Chaka lusted for the battle-blood,

He bade the impis turn their spears on one another.

So we turned, impi on impi, Kaffir against Kaffir, and we smote,

And all the tribes made up those impis, all the tribes

Of Kaffirland. Spear clanged on spear and so we smote and slew.

And Chaka watched, his strange, black eyes, flaming with lust of slaughter.

So we slew, and slaughtered one another,

Till Chaka bade us cease.

So, as I said, I followed Chaka, for a king

To be a king and reign, must be a slayer.

For they rule by fear and power. Let a king

Allow his tribe to lose their fear of him and they will hurl him down.

“Then the young chief, Um Silikaz, arose in power,

A chief of my own tribe, Mosilikatze.

A mighty chieftain of the Matabele.

He was a Matabele and so am I. Should I, Umengan, serve a Zulu king?

Yet I think that the young chief, Mosilikatze,

Had never risen to power, had it not been for his aquira, Umlimo.

Many and mighty are the Kaffir tribes,

And Matabele and Zulu are akin. So with shrewd eye to coming power,

Umlimo, aquira of the Zulus came to the induna of the Matabele,

Mosilikatze. ’Twas he who counseled the young chief, Mosilikatze,

To raid the tribes of far Mashonaland.

Whereby the impi of Mosilikatze gained fame and power, women, cattle, loot.

’Twas he bade Mosilikatze withhold the cattle that were the Inkosa’s due,

Whereat Chaka, the king was full of wrath

And ordered forth an impi to bring captive, Mosilikatze, chief of the Matabeles.

“The impi found Mosilikatze, alone with his aquira, Umlimo.

Then in his mighty strength the chieftain laughed,

And with his spear and shield prepared for fray.

But the aquira spoke, ‘Nay, fight not now.

Nay, nay, throw down your spear and yield and I will steal away.’

So the chief of the Matabeles did as the aquira said,

And as the impi closed about, Umlimo sprang,

And leaped away and none could stay him, so he fled,

Escaping. Then they dragged Mosilikatze before the king.

And on him Chaka glared, and bold Mosilikatze

Shrank back before the glare of Chaka’s eyes, for none could

Face the Inkosa’s eyes when savage rage blazed from them.

‘Fling this jackal in a hut,’ then Chaka said,

‘And slay him when I order.’ So they took

Mosilikatze and placed him in a hut, whereby a warrior stood with an assegai.

“Then came Umlimo and with him warriors of the Matabeles.

The Zulu warrior they smote senseless and they freed

Mosilikatze and fled to the Matabeles.

And when Chaka learned his prey had fled,

He slew a dozen warriors in his rage, with his own spear.

And to Mosilikatze came many warriors of the Matabeles.

~ REH ~

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A Word from the Outer Dark & The Viking's Trail by REH with artwork by Richard Corben.

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Adventure by Robert E. Howard

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The Road to Rome

[Von K]

Thanks for all the posts Hun and Deuce!

Don't think this one has been posted here. It's one of Barb's faves ...

The Gold and the Grey

also known as

Echoes from an Iron Harp

by Robert E. Howard

Shadows and echoes haunt my dreams with dim and subtle pain,
With the faded fire of a lost desire, like a ghost on a moonlit plain,
In the pallid mist of death-like sleep she comes again to me:
I see the gleam of her golden hair and her eyes like the deep grey sea.

We came from the North as the spume is blown when the blue tide billows down,
The kings of the South were overthrown in ruin of camp and town,
Temple and shrine we dashed to dust, and roared in the dead gods' ears;
We saw the fall of the kings of Gaul and shattered the Belgae spears.

And South we rolled like a drifting cloud, like a wind that bends the grass,
But we smote in vain on the gates of Spain for our own kin held the Pass.
Then again we turned where the watch-fires burned to mark the lines of Rome,
And fire and tower and standard sank as ships that die in foam.

The legions came, hard hawk-eyed men, war-wise in march and fray,
But we rushed like a whirlwind on their ranks and swept their lines away.
Army and consul we overthrew, staining the trampled loam;
Horror and fear like a lifted spear lay hard on the walls of Rome.

Our mad desire was a flying fire that should burn the Roman gate--
But our day of doom lay hard on us, at a toss of the dice of Fate.
There rose a man in the ranks of Rome--ill fall the cursed day!
Our German allies bit the dust and we turned hard at bay.

Over the land like a ghostly hand the mists of morning lay,
We smote their horsemen in the mist and hacked a bloody way.
We smote their horsemen in a cloud and as the mists were cleared
Right through the legion massed behind our headlong squadron sheared.

Saddle to saddle we chained our ranks for nothing of war we knew
But to charge in the old wild Celtic way--and die, or slash right through.
We left red ruin in our wake, dead men in ghastly ranks
When fresh, unwearied Roman arms smote hard upon our flanks.

Baffled and weary, red with wounds, leaguered on every side,
Chained to our doom we smote in vain, slaughtered and sank and died.
Writhing among the horses' hoofs, torn and slashed and gored,
Gripping still with a bloody hand a notched and broken sword,

I heard the war-cry growing faint, drowned by the trumpet's call,
And the roar of "Marius! Marius!" triumphant over all.
Through the bloody dust and the swirling fog as I strove in vain to rise,
I saw the last of the warriors fall and swift as a falcon flies.

The Romans rush to the barricade where the women watched the fight--
I heard the screams and I saw steel flash and naked arms toss white.
The ravisher died as he gripped his prey, by the dagger swiftly driven--
By the next stroke, with her own hand, the heart of the girl was riven.

Brown fingers gripped white wrists in vain--blood flecked the weary loam--
The Cimbri yield no virgin-slaves to glut the lords of Rome!
And I saw as I crawled like a crippled snake to slay before I died,
Unruly golden hair that tossed in high barbaric pride.

Her slim foot pressed a dead man's breast, her proud head back was thrown,
Matching the steel she held on high, her eyes in glory shone.
I saw the gleam of her golden hair and her eyes like the deep gray sea--
And the love in the gaze that sought me out, barbaric, fierce and free--
Then the dagger fell and the skies fell too and the mists closed over me.

Like phantoms into the ages lost has the Cimbrian nation passed;
Destiny shifts like summer clouds on Grecian hilltops massed.
Untold centuries glide away, Marius long is dust;
Even eternal Rome has passed in days of decay and rust.
But memories live in the ghosts of dreams and dreams still come to me,
And I see the gleam of her golden hair and her eyes like the deep grey sea.