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Post by themirrorthief on Sept 6, 2018 10:18:55 GMT -5
HOPES Of DREAMS
Sunfire caught in a windy mesh, Feet that fail on a barren plain,
The slow worms gnaw through gristle and flesh. And my brain goes back to dust again. Vultures roost on my reeking ribs, Gorging their fill of heart and thew;
My pelvis, spider and scorpion cribs; Dust of my fingers the breezes strew. And the drifting years wane on and on,
And centuries die in the desert sand Till a great king comes in the lure of dawn And stirs my bones with idle hand. Morning’s goblet is brimming full.
He taps on the bone with his long jade nails, And the adder coiled inside my skull Wakens and burns and rustles its scales.
And the great king utters one deathly cry And crumples down like a shattered staff To writhe in the sighing sand and die,
And my jaws gape in a silent laugh.
Robert E. Howard
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Post by deuce on Sept 7, 2018 0:52:22 GMT -5
Black Harps in the Hills
Let Saxons sing of Saxon kings, Red faced swine with a greasy beard— Through my songs the Gaelic broadsword sings, The pibrock skirls and the sporran swings, For mine is the blood of the Irish kings That Saxon monarchs feared.
The heather bends to a marching tread, The echoes shake to a marching tune— For the Gael has supped on bitter bread, And follows the ghosts of the mighty dead, And the blue blades gleam and the pikes burn red In the rising of the moon.
Norseman reaver or red haired Dane, Norman baron or English lord— Each of them reeled to a reddened rain, Drunken with fury and blind with pain, Till the black fire spilled from the Gaelic brain And the steel from the broken sword.
But never the chiefs in death lay still, Never the clans lay scattered and few— But a new face rose and a new voice roared, And a new hand gripped the broken sword, And the fleeing clans were a charging horde, And the old hate burned anew!
Brian Boruma, Shane O’Neill, Art McMurrough and Edward Bruce, Thomas Fitzgerald—ringing steel Shakes the hills and the trumpets peal, Skulls crunch under the iron heel! Death is the only truce!
Clontarf, Benburb, and Yellow Ford— The Gael with red Death rides alone! Lamh derg abu! And the riders reel To Hugh O’Donnell’s girding steel And the lances of Tyrone!
Edward Fitzgerald, Charles Parnell, Robert Emmet—I smite the harp! Wolfe Tone and Napper Tandy—hail! The song that you sang shall never fail While one brain burns with the fire of the Gael And one last sword is sharp—
Lamh laidir abu! Lamh derg abu! Munster and Ulster, north and south, The old hate flickers and burns anew, The heather shakes and the pikes gleam blue. And the old clans charge as they charged with you Into Death’s red grinning mouth!
We have not won and we have not lost— Fire in Kerry and Fermanagh— We have broken the teeth in the Saxon’s boast Though our dead have littered each heath and coast, And by God, we will raise another host! Slainte—Erin go bragh.
~ Robert E. Howard ~
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Post by linefacedscrivener on Apr 4, 2020 7:38:17 GMT -5
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fernando
Thief
I'm purist and proud! I hate insistent people! And I only give opinions when I'm ASKED!!
Posts: 141
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Post by fernando on Apr 6, 2020 18:27:53 GMT -5
A Roman LadyThere is a strangeness in my soul A dark and brooding sea. Nor all the waves on Capri’s shoal Might stay the thirst of me. For men have come and men have gone For pleasure and for hire. Though they lay broken at the dawn They did not quench my fire. My pity is a deathly ruth I burn men with my eyes. Oh, would all men were one strong youth To break between my thighs. And many a man his fortune spread To glut my ecstasy As I lay panting on his bed In shameless nudity. But all of ancient Egypt’s gold Can never equal this, Nor all the treasures kingdoms hold, A single hour of bliss. Within my villa’s high domain Are boys from Britain’s rocks And dark eyed slender lads from Spain And Greeks with perfumed locks. And youths of soft and subtle speech From furtherest Orient, Wherever arms of legions reach And Roman chains are sent. Why may I not be satiate With kisses of some boy — They only rouse my passions spate I never know such joy As when through chambers filled with noise Of wails and pleas and sighs I stride among my naked boys With whips that bruise their thighs. I drift through mists red flaming flung On hills of ecstasies As shoulder-wealed and buttock-stung They shriek and kiss my knees. —Robert E. Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, Jun 1928, CL1.206-209 Source: onanunderwood5.blogspot.com/2018/08/conan-and-sappho-robert-e-howard-on.html
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Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
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Post by Deleted on Feb 25, 2022 4:12:52 GMT -5
A Song Of The Naked Lands by Robert E. Howard (Audio Poem)
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