Poems in Tribute to Robert E. Howard

[deuce]

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 ~

[BlackHeart]

Didnt heard of this before, man. Its nice stuff... Wery nice  

[robp]

Not seen that before either, thanks for posting

[deuce]

Feb 24, 2016 16:21:11 GMT -5 BlackHeart said:

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.  

[Von K]

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

[Von K]

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

[deuce]

Feb 29, 2016 7:54:19 GMT -5 Von K said:

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.

[ChrisLAdams]

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…

---

[themirrorthief]

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