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Post by BlackHeart on Feb 22, 2016 15:57:02 GMT -5
That's the one! You may hate him, you may love him, but this is truly epic poem. Very Conanic, really All in all, Carter (though far from valid) was better understood REH than De Camp.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 22, 2016 16:18:35 GMT -5
I remember that poem in savage sword of conan 8, it was illustrated by Jess Jodloman.
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Post by deuce on Feb 24, 2016 17:30:43 GMT -5
Steve Eng, poet, weird fiction scholar and REH fan, wrote this little piece back in 1979...
By STEVE ENG
Merlinda died of grief
A dozen years ago,
A slave to her belief
Your love wouldn't slow.
Her passion only grew
In the clay and loam:
Merlinda calls you to
Try her mossy home .
Merlinda beckons sweet
From the weed-grown gloom
Of her dirt-retreat:
Stone-marked, earth-lined room.
So go to her tonight.
Tear her rotted shroud
Away, and love her right.
Passionate and proud.
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Post by deuce on Mar 9, 2016 22:04:17 GMT -5
Fire and Brimstone
I had a dream last night while I was lying in my bed And the whole world was standing still and the moon was turning red. I saw a sign in the sky, I have come to set you free There’s a light shining bright, shining down, down on me.
I saw fire, fire and brimstone coming down on my head. I looked around, I saw hordes, I heard a voice say “come to me.” I felt the rumbling beneath my feet and the whole world was shaking free And the sun was standing still, it was dark, but I could see.
I looked around, I saw hordes, I heard a voice say “come to me.” I felt the rumbling beneath my feet and the whole world was shaking free. I saw fire, fire and brimstone coming down on my head I saw fire, fire and brimstone coming down, down on me.~ Mark Lanegan ~
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Sept 2, 2016 10:15:27 GMT -5
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 14, 2016 1:45:32 GMT -5
CONAN by Thomas Gray
Conan's name, my lay, rehearse, Build to him the lofty verse, Sacred tribute of the bard, Verse, the hero's sole reward. As the flame's devouring force; As the whirlwind in its course; As the thunder's fiery stroke, Glancing on the shivered oak; Did the sword of Conan mow The crimson harvest of the foe. ......
Dear Kail, thanks very much. Please keep searching for more?
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 15, 2016 18:54:40 GMT -5
Song Of Harald Harfager by Sir Walter Scott
The sun is rising dimly red, The wind is wailing low and dread; From his cliff the eagle sallies, Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; In the mist the ravens hover, Peep the wild-dogs from the cover, Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling, Each in his wild accents telling, ‘Soon we feast on dead and dying, Fair-hair'd Harald's flag is flying.’ Many a crest in air is streaming, Many a helmet darkly gleaming, Many an arm the axe uprears, Doomed to hew the wood of spears. All around the crowded ranks, Horses neigh and armor clanks; Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, Louder still the bard is singing, ‘Gather, footmen; gather, horsemen, To the field, ye valiant Norsemen! ‘Halt ye not not for food or slumber, View not vantage, count not number; Jolly reapers forward still, Grow the crop on vale or hill, Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe, It shall down before the scythe. Forward with your sickles bright, Reap the harvest of the fight.— Onward footmen, onward horsemen, To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen! ‘Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter, O'er you hovers Odin's daughter; Hear the choice she spreads before ye,— Victory, and wealth, and glory; Or old Valhalla's roaring hail, Her ever-circling mead and ale, Where for eternity unite The joys of wassail and of fight. Headlong forward, foot and horsemen, Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen!’ ......
That's a cracking and rousing good poem. Walter sure had fire in his quill. Thanks very much, Kail.
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 18, 2016 2:13:43 GMT -5
In Shadowland by J N Paton
Between the moaning of the mountain stream And the hoarse thunder of the Atlantic deep, An outcast from the peaceful realms of sleep I lie, and hear as in a fever-dream The homeless night-wind in the darkness scream And wail around the inaccessible steep Down whose gaunt sides the spectral torrents leap From crag to crag, - till almost I could deem The plaided ghosts of buried centuries Were mustering in the glen with bow and spear And shadowy hounds to hunt the shadowy deer, Mix in phantasmal sword-play, or, with eyes Of wrath and pain immortal, wander o'er Loved scenes where human footstep comes no more. ...... Another great poem find. Thanks, Kail.
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Post by themirrorthief on Jun 6, 2018 16:35:44 GMT -5
conan was having a very bad day he had drank bad mead and woke with a nose bleed there was a severed head somewhere stinking up his crib and his favorite trull was on vacation and worse of all there was calm in the nation he suspected a wizard was up to no good with all this peace and quiet but worse of all he couldnt find the remote he cursed loudly and leapt upon his steed and wished that he could vomit that gallon of spoiled mead
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