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Post by buxom9sorceress on Feb 27, 2016 19:00:23 GMT -5
SWORDS & WORDS [ Poetry ] A wide variety of poetry will be in here. Please post fave poems by OTHER poets [ NOT written by you ] in here? Any types of poetry [ rhyming, + non-rhyming [plain prose] ] are welcome in here. Any genre [subject] are welcome in here. So any swords & sorcery, fantasy, horror, science fiction, battles, etc... are all welcome in here. >> And song LYRICS are welcome in here, too. And please post any LINKS to other great poems or poetry sites? ====  //////////////////////// ==== > Please post your OWN poems [ written by YOU ] in our PIT OF SET [ New Poetry ] topic swordsofreh.proboards.com/thread/135/pit-set-new-poetryit is for our Members OWN new poems, ONLY. ==== |
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Mar 3, 2016 16:44:18 GMT -5
"Back At The Funny Farm" Hammer pounding in my heart, I think it's gonna burst Spring unwinding in my head, I don't know which is worse I hear ya talkin' but the words are kinda strange One of us is crazy and the other one's insane [CHORUS] Stay calm, don't be alarmed, it's just a holiday Back at the funny farm Nothin' in this cold white room to help me recognise I don't understand why everyone is in disguise I gotta live right now, I can't stay here no more But I'm afraid to try in case they've locked the door [ + CHORUS - again ] Can't find the windows but I gotta get outside Can you help me stand it feels like both my legs have died What was that injection, 'cos I think it's goin' wrong I really like this jacket but the sleeves are much too long [ + CHORUS-out] ---- [ from "Another Perfect Day" (1983), by Motorhead. 1 of their very best albums. ] > a great blazing rousing song to wake you up and start the day... with a crazy smile... Rock on ! |
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Post by deuce on Nov 16, 2016 21:08:56 GMT -5
The Unsung Archer By David Middleton Edelen II Strutting rough hewn planks of tavern, deck on the main or forest loam, the Minstrels sing, amidst jacks of ale and flecks of foam, of shining bugles and deadly hordes, flashing swords and spears of gore. Of valor and courage, heroes of a thousand years and lore. Sing they, of soldiers grim and the knight glorious in battle lock! Forget thee, thou men of prose, when your lives were saved by caress of knock? For who, pure of heart and aim, pierced the hearts of enemies and with fear their marrow. For of heroes' music, none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow! From a thousand fields, sing cowards and heroes, of glory, plunder, and the battle's gore and agony's throes. While in embraces warm, amidst parlors sweet where cowards brag, They sing of fields from whence they fled, or of the field to which no price could drag. But sing ye not of the archer, his destroyed host or halted charge, or filled mound, who with little respect from hero or coward, stood their ground. They understand, and blame ye not, ye minstrel with the heart of a sparrow. For of heroes' music, none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow! Sing ye Minstrels, of generals who lead, but forget the men who fight, of scarves and banners, lines of battle, but forget the archers who loosed the flight, Who oft times, fletch frayed and point gory through shaft-darkened sky, won the day. So of others thou sing, and the cymbals clash and the harps play. So of knights and footmen sing, but of the stalwart archer we sang. For while your lives in the balance hung, saved by the hiss of arrow and twang, whose sweet music laid, thy enemies in furrow and barrow. For of heroes' music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow! Whilst bright lights, pomp and pageantry surrounds king and knight, they laugh as dismal fields, thatched huts, or a soggy camp be the archers' plight. Amongst walls of castle and light bright, his arms worked by others, a knight doth sloth as wine or Champagne he sippeth. But by feeble light of candles, faint and flickering, an archer works his twine and string while tea or jack of ale he tippeth. Amidst glittering halls and lighted pavilions, the chivalrous and the sophist sing of valor of old, but forgotten under thatched roofs or lonely tents the archers sing, with stroke and caress of bow. For knoweth we, with neither heavy helm, armor nor shield have we, if overrun for many an archer 'tis that lonely barrow. But of hero's music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang or hiss of arrow! With sun on shield and sparkle of spear the horde advances, and come death's realm. Armor shining, with arc of sword, meet foes with crack of buckler and dent of helm. Horsehair plumes and crimson sashes, armor and ribbons sullied in gory mud, spark of swords as axes cleave, souls flee and banners be splashed with blood. To rearward atop a knoll, be ye cowards say some, do the archers stand, Hearts thumping, eyes searching, their bows at the ready and arrow in hand. For of hero's music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow! The line cracks, spears sheathed in bodies, swords and axes dripping, the horde advances. But all note the archers, ever vigil, as our footmen waiver, fastly holding their stances. The signal is up, archers hark! The arm is lifted and with stroke of bow and string, the sky is darkened as the archers loose, and death is on the wing. Fair bristling with arrows amidst crimson spray falters the horde, Knight and footmen rally, the line is held amidst loss could barely afford. To the archers' ears there came a song, and lo, from amidst the dead, crimsoned swords high, footmen, knights and king turned and sang; Hail archers; For of hero's music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow!  |
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 17, 2016 4:40:00 GMT -5
I posted a couple over in the Hyborian Age poetry thread, they probably belong in here - apologies for forgetting about this one.  ...... Hi Kail. No, it does not matter. Both this topic and the 'Hyborian Age' poetry topic are for poems by 'other' fave poets. Poems with a 'Hyborian Age' flavour /content can be posted in that topic, or in here. [ or post them in both topics, if you can be bothered? ] This topic is for any type of poetry or genre. [ i hope more song lyrics will be posted in here? ] == Thanks again for the hyborian/conan poems you posted in there. I look forward to a new poem by you in our 'pit of set', please? ==== >>>> DEUCE: thanks for the archer poem. very good indeed. |
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 20, 2016 4:57:59 GMT -5
Cheers, Bux.
Here's another by one of Scotia's finest - lang but guid.
Ticonderoga
A legend of the West Highlands
~{by Robert Louis Stevenson}~
_______
....
Where flew King George's ensign
The plaided soldiers went:
They drew the sword in Germany,
In Flanders pitched the tent.
The bells of foreign cities
Rang far across the plain:
They passed the happy Rhine,
They drank the rapid Main.
Through Asiatic jungles
The Tartans filed their way,
And the neighing of the war-pipes
Struck terror in Cathay.
....
Hey that's a very good long saga-poem by Stevenson. i like the use of different coloured verses: it looks good and makes a long poem easier to read. Thanks very much, Kail. |
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Post by deuce on Nov 26, 2016 16:14:26 GMT -5
The Contemplative Sphinx
by Richard L. Tierney
Ten thousand centuries its eyes have known --
That contemplative Watcher of the East.
It saw Nitocris plot her vengeful feast
And watched dark Nephren-Ka ascend his throne.
Its stony flesh endured Set-Typhon’s storm.
Its graven visage gazed across the sands
When savage beasts licked Nyarlathotep’s hands
And Stygian lords did sorcerous rites perform.
To traveller who come to gaze and gape
‘Tis said: "Five thousand years ago, not more,
King Kephren carved its lion-mighty shape”.
But Bedouins yet recite the ancient lore
That its dark origins no man can know,
Nor those vast, columned caverns far below. |
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Nov 27, 2016 4:10:40 GMT -5
The Contemplative Sphinx
by Richard L. Tierney
Ten thousand centuries its eyes have known --
That contemplative Watcher of the East.
It saw Nitocris plot her vengeful feast
And watched dark Nephren-Ka ascend his throne.
Its stony flesh endured Set-Typhon’s storm.
Its graven visage gazed across the sands
When savage beasts licked Nyarlathotep’s hands
And Stygian lords did sorcerous rites perform.
To traveller who come to gaze and gape
‘Tis said: "Five thousand years ago, not more,
King Kephren carved its lion-mighty shape”.
But Bedouins yet recite the ancient lore
That its dark origins no man can know,
Nor those vast, columned caverns far below. Great sphinx poem. Thanks very much, Deuce. [ i like the idea [ research ] that it was originally a huge primitive statue of Anubis [ the crouching jackal form ]. And a much later pharoah had it's head recarved in his own image? ] |
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Post by deuce on Dec 2, 2016 18:48:21 GMT -5
The Contemplative Sphinx
by Richard L. Tierney
Ten thousand centuries its eyes have known --
That contemplative Watcher of the East.
It saw Nitocris plot her vengeful feast
And watched dark Nephren-Ka ascend his throne.
Its stony flesh endured Set-Typhon’s storm.
Its graven visage gazed across the sands
When savage beasts licked Nyarlathotep’s hands
And Stygian lords did sorcerous rites perform.
To traveller who come to gaze and gape
‘Tis said: "Five thousand years ago, not more,
King Kephren carved its lion-mighty shape”.
But Bedouins yet recite the ancient lore
That its dark origins no man can know,
Nor those vast, columned caverns far below. Great sphinx poem. Thanks very much, Deuce. [ i like the idea [ research ] that it was originally a huge primitive statue of Anubis [ the crouching jackal form ]. And a much later pharoah had it's head recarved in his own image? ] Hey Bux! I've read the Temples' book. While I enjoyed it, and it contained some nice tidbits of lore, I really have to agree with Andrew Collins that it wasn't fully convincing: www.andrewcollins.com/page/news/News_vii_EQ12%20_1_May2009.htm |
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Dec 3, 2016 8:31:57 GMT -5
Love me some Nightwish. I've seen them twice now, both times with Annett Olzon who was absolutely sweet when I met the whole band once, taking my hand in both of hers and holding it the entire time we spoke. They were all very, very nice and are so energetic live. This song featured Tarja Turunen, and is one of my favs by them.
"Walking In The Air"
We're walking in the air
We're floating in the moonlit sky
The people far below are sleeping as we fly
I'm holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you
Far across the world
The villages go by like trees
The rivers and the hills
The forests and the streams
Children gaze open mouth
Taken by surprise
Nobody down below believes their eyes
We're surfing in the air
We're swimming in the frozen sky
We're drifting over icy
Mountains floating by
Suddenly swooping low on an ocean deep
Arousing of a mighty monster from its sleep
We're walking in the air
We're floating in the midnight sky
And everyone who sees us greets us as we fly
I'm holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly so high above with you
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Post by deuce on Dec 28, 2016 22:36:04 GMT -5
A year ago today. RIP, Lemmy. In The Year Of The Wolf
In The Year Of The Wolf,
all the world smelled good,
In the snow and the ice,
all the rest was blood,
In the time of the tribe,
we took a thousand lives,
When I ran with the wolves,
and the hunting was good,
See me now, I was another,
Not like me, when the wolves were brothers,
See me now, you cannot know,
The kind of food that me grow,
It was the wolf in me,
Body and soul on fire,
In the cold, full moon,
Blood, red, desire,
It was the wolf in me,
You know it felt so true,
The night I ran with the wolves,
Tonight I come for you,
In The Year Of The Wolf,
how could you ever know,
There in the forest,
I had teeth to show,
In a different time,
when the world was mine,
When I ran as a wolf,
and the sun burned low,
See me now, I was another,
Mean and vicious, fast and clever,
see me now, you would not dream,
The food I ate, the food that screamed,
It was the wolf in me,
And all my soul was fire,
By the cold, dull moon,
Blood, red, desire,
It was the wolf in me,
I howled the cold night through,
The year I ran as a wolf,
Tonight the food is you,
In The Year Of The Wolf,
all the tribe ran mad,
On the frozen lake,
and I felt so glad,
With tooth and claw,
all your blood and more,
When I ran with the wolves,
and the hunt turned bad,
See me now, this is not me,
Not like the one, I used to be,
See me now, you would not guess,
A different heart raving in my chest,
It was the wolf in me,
When the world was cold,
It was the life I lived,
In the dark world below,
It was the wolf in me,
Crying and howling too,
I was crying for the hunt,
But I was hunting for you.~ Ian "Lemmy" Kilmister ~ *Art by Ron Spencer |
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Post by deuce on Dec 31, 2016 11:16:28 GMT -5
Kipling was Robert E. Howard's favorite poet. Kipling would be 151 today.
Cold Iron
Gold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."
"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."
So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master of you all!"
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"
"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."
"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."
"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --
For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"
"Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!"
"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"
~ Rudyard Kipling ~ |
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Post by frontierpartisan on Dec 31, 2016 23:26:07 GMT -5
Well, Deuce, You finally got me over here. Good to back in Howardian lands...
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Post by deuce on Jan 1, 2017 13:37:12 GMT -5
Well, Deuce, You finally got me over here. Good to back in Howardian lands... Good to see ya back in the wolf-pack, bud!  |
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Post by deuce on Jan 6, 2017 11:49:07 GMT -5
George Sterling was Clark Ashton Smith's mentor in the realm of poetry... A Wine of Wizardry_________ "When mountains were stained as with wine
By the dawning of Time, and as wine
Were the seas."
AMBROSE BIERCE.
Without, the battlements of sunset shine,
'Mid domes the sea-winds rear and overwhelm.
Into a crystal cup the dusky wine
I pour, and, musing at so rich a shrine,
I watch the star that haunts its ruddy gloom.
Now Fancy, empress of a purpled realm,
Awakes with brow caressed by poppy-bloom,
And wings in sudden dalliance her flight
To strands where opals of the shattered light
Gleam in the wind-strewn foam, and maidens flee
A little past the striving billows' reach,
Or seek the russet mosses of the sea,
And wrinkled shells that lure along the beach,
And please the heart of Fancy; yet she turns,
Tho' trembling, to a grotto rosy-sparred,
Where wattled monsters redly gape, that guard
A cowled magician peering on the damned
Thro' vials wherein a splendid poison burns,
Sifting Satanic gules athwart his brow.
So Fancy will not gaze with him, and now
She wanders to an iceberg oriflammed
With rayed, auroral guidons of the North--
Wherein hath winter hidden ardent gems
And treasuries of frozen anadems,
Alight with timid sapphires of the snow.
But she would dream of warmer gems, and so
Ere long her eyes in fastnesses look forth
O'er blue profounds mysterious whence glow
The coals of Tartarus on the moonless air,
As Titans plan to storm Olympus' throne,
'Mid pulse of dungeoned forges down the stunned,
Undominated firmament, and glare
Of Cyclopean furnaces unsunned.
Then hastens she in refuge to a lone,
Immortal garden of the eastern hours,
Where Dawn upon a pansy's breast hath laid
A single tear, and whence the wind hath flown
And left a silence. Far on the shadowy tow'rs
Droop blazoned banners, and the woodland shade,
With leafy flames and dyes autumnal hung,
Makes beautiful the twilight of the year.
For this the fays will dance, for elfin cheer,
Within a dell where some mad girl hath flung
A bracelet that the painted lizards fear--
Red pyres of muffled light! Yet Fancy spurns
The revel, and to eastern hazard turns,
And glaring beacons of the Soldan's shores,
When in a Syrian treasure-house she pours,
From caskets rich and amethystine urns,
Dull fires of dusty jewels that have bound
The brows of naked Ashtaroth around.
Or hushed, at fall of some disastrous night,
When sunset, like a crimson throat to hell,
Is cavernous, she marks the seaward flight
Of homing dragons dark upon the West;
Till, drawn by tales the winds of ocean tell,
And mute amid the splendors of her quest,
To some red city of the Djinns she flees
And, lost in palaces of silence, sees
Within a porphyry crypt the murderous light
Of garnet-crusted lamps whereunder sit
Perturbéd men that tremble at a sound,
And ponder words on ghastly vellum writ,
In vipers' blood, to whispers from the night--
Infernal rubrics, sung to Satan's might,
Or chaunted to the Dragon in his gyre.
But she would blot from memory the sight,
And seeks a stainéd twilight of the South,
Where crafty gnomes with scarlet eyes conspire
To quench Aldebaran's affronting fire,
Low sparkling just beyond their cavern's mouth,
Above a wicked queen's unhallowed tomb.
There lichens brown, incredulous of fame,
Whisper to veinéd flowers her body's shame,
'Mid stillness of all pageantries of bloom.
Within, lurk orbs that graven monsters clasp;
Red-embered rubies smolder in the gloom,
Betrayed by lamps that nurse a sullen flame,
And livid roots writhe in the marble's grasp,
As moaning airs invoke the conquered rust
Of lordly helms made equal in the dust.
Without, where baleful cypresses make rich
The bleeding sun's phantasmagoric gules,
Are fungus-tapers of the twilight witch
(Seen by the bat above unfathomed pools)
And tiger-lilies known to silent ghouls,
Whose king hath digged a somber carcanet
And necklaces with fevered opals set.
But Fancy, well affrighted at his gaze,
Flies to a violet headland of the West,
About whose base the sun-lashed billows blaze,
Ending in precious foam their fatal quest,
As far below the deep-hued ocean molds,
With waters' toil and polished pebbles' fret,
The tiny twilight in the jacinth set,
With wintry orb the moonstone-crystal holds,
Snapt coral twigs and winy agates wet,
Translucencies of jasper, and the folds
Of banded onyx, and vermilion breast
Of cinnabar. Anear on orange sands,
With prows of bronze the sea-stained galleys rest,
And swarthy mariners from alien strands
Stare at the red horizon, for their eyes
Behold a beacon burn on evening skies,
As fed with sanguine oils at touch of night.
Forth from that pharos-flame a radiance flies,
To spill in vinous gleams on ruddy decks;
And overside, when leap the startled waves
And crimson bubbles rise from battle-wrecks,
Unresting hydras wrought of bloody light
Dip to the ocean's phosphorescent caves.
So Fancy's carvel seeks an isle afar,
Led by the Scorpion's rubescent star,
Until in templed zones she smiles to see
Black incense glow, and scarlet-bellied snakes
Sway to the tawny flutes of sorcery.
There priestesses in purple robes hold each
A sultry garnet to the sea-linkt sun,
Or, just before the colored morning shakes
A splendor on the ruby-sanded beach,
Cry unto Betelgeuse a mystic word.
But Fancy, amorous of evening, takes
Her flight to groves whence lustrous rivers run,
Thro' hyacinth, a minster wall to gird,
Where, in the hushed cathedral's jeweled gloom,
Ere Faith return, and azure censers fume,
She kneels, in solemn quietude, to mark
The suppliant day from gorgeous oriels float
And altar-lamps immure the deathless spark;
Till, all her dreams made rich with fervent hues,
She goes to watch, beside a lurid moat,
The kingdoms of the afterglow suffuse
A sentinel mountain stationed toward the night--
Whose broken tombs betray their ghastly trust,
Till bloodshot gems stare up like eyes of lust.
And now she knows, at agate portals bright,
How Circe and her poisons have a home,
Carved in one ruby that a Titan lost,
Where icy philters brim with scarlet foam,
'Mid hiss of oils in burnished caldrons tost,
While thickly from her prey his life-tide drips,
In turbid dyes that tinge her torture-dome;
As craftily she gleans her deadly dews,
With gyving spells not Pluto's queen can use,
Or listens to her victim's moan, and sips
Her darkest wine, and smiles with wicked lips.
Nor comes a god with any power to break
The red alembics whence her gleaming broths
Obscenely fume, as asp or adder froths,
To lethal mists whose writhing vapors make
Dim augury, till shapes of men that were
Point, weeping, at tremendous dooms to be,
When pillared pomps and thrones supreme shall stir,
Unstable as the foam-dreams of the sea.
But Fancy still is fugitive, and turns
To caverns where a demon altar burns,
And Satan, yawning on his brazen seat,
Fondles a screaming thing his fiends have flayed,
Ere Lilith come his indolence to greet,
Who leads from hell his whitest queens, arrayed
In chains so heated at their master's fire
That one new-damned had thought their bright attire
Indeed were coral, till the dazzling dance
So terribly that brilliance shall enhance.
But Fancy is unsatisfied, and soon
She seeks the silence of a vaster night,
Where powers of wizardry, with faltering sight
(Whenas the hours creep farthest from the noon)
Seek by the glow-worm's lantern cold and dull
A crimson spider hidden in a skull,
Or search for mottled vines with berries white,
Where waters mutter to the gibbous moon.
There, clothed in cerements of malignant light,
A sick enchantress scans the dark to curse,
Beside a caldron vext with harlot's blood,
The stars of that red Sign which spells her doom.
Then Fancy cleaves the palmy skies adverse
To sunset barriers. By the Ganges' flood
She sees, in her dim temple, Siva loom
And, visioned with the monstrous ruby, glare
On distant twilight where the burning-ghaut
Is lit with glowering pyres that seem the eyes
Of her abhorrent dragon-worms that bear
The pestilence, by Death in darkness wrought.
So Fancy's wings forsake the Asian skies,
And now her heart is curious of halls
In which dead Merlin's prowling ape hath spilt
A vial squat whose scarlet venom crawls
To ciphers bright and terrible, that tell
The sins of demons and the encharneled guilt
That breathes a phantom at whose cry the owl,
Malignly mute above the midnight well,
Is dolorous, and Hecate lifts her cowl
To mutter swift a minatory rune;
And, ere the tomb-thrown echoings have ceased,
The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,
Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon.
But evening now is come, and Fancy folds
Her splendid plumes, nor any longer holds
Adventurous quest o'er stainéd lands and seas--
Fled to a star above the sunset lees,
O'er onyx waters stilled by gorgeous oils
That toward the twilight reach emblazoned coils.
And I, albeit Merlin-sage hath said,
"A vyper lurketh in ye wine-cuppe redde,"
Gaze pensively upon the way she went,
Drink at her font, and smile as one content.
~ George Sterling ~ |
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Jan 8, 2017 0:16:11 GMT -5
George Sterling was Clark Ashton Smith's mentor in the realm of poetry... A Wine of Wizardry_________ "When mountains were stained as with wine
By the dawning of Time, and as wine
Were the seas."
AMBROSE BIERCE.
Without, the battlements of sunset shine,
'Mid domes the sea-winds rear and overwhelm.
Into a crystal cup the dusky wine
I pour, and, musing at so rich a shrine,
I watch the star that haunts its ruddy gloom.
Now Fancy, empress of a purpled realm,
Awakes with brow caressed by poppy-bloom,
And wings in sudden dalliance her flight
To strands where opals of the shattered light
Gleam in the wind-strewn foam, and maidens flee
A little past the striving billows' reach,
Or seek the russet mosses of the sea,
And wrinkled shells that lure along the beach,
And please the heart of Fancy; yet she turns,
Tho' trembling, to a grotto rosy-sparred,
Where wattled monsters redly gape, that guard
A cowled magician peering on the damned
Thro' vials wherein a splendid poison burns,
Sifting Satanic gules athwart his brow.
So Fancy will not gaze with him, and now
She wanders to an iceberg oriflammed
With rayed, auroral guidons of the North--
Wherein hath winter hidden ardent gems
And treasuries of frozen anadems,
Alight with timid sapphires of the snow.
But she would dream of warmer gems, and so
Ere long her eyes in fastnesses look forth
O'er blue profounds mysterious whence glow
The coals of Tartarus on the moonless air,
As Titans plan to storm Olympus' throne,
'Mid pulse of dungeoned forges down the stunned,
Undominated firmament, and glare
Of Cyclopean furnaces unsunned.
Then hastens she in refuge to a lone,
Immortal garden of the eastern hours,
Where Dawn upon a pansy's breast hath laid
A single tear, and whence the wind hath flown
And left a silence. Far on the shadowy tow'rs
Droop blazoned banners, and the woodland shade,
With leafy flames and dyes autumnal hung,
Makes beautiful the twilight of the year.
For this the fays will dance, for elfin cheer,
Within a dell where some mad girl hath flung
A bracelet that the painted lizards fear--
Red pyres of muffled light! Yet Fancy spurns
The revel, and to eastern hazard turns,
And glaring beacons of the Soldan's shores,
When in a Syrian treasure-house she pours,
From caskets rich and amethystine urns,
Dull fires of dusty jewels that have bound
The brows of naked Ashtaroth around.
Or hushed, at fall of some disastrous night,
When sunset, like a crimson throat to hell,
Is cavernous, she marks the seaward flight
Of homing dragons dark upon the West;
Till, drawn by tales the winds of ocean tell,
And mute amid the splendors of her quest,
To some red city of the Djinns she flees
And, lost in palaces of silence, sees
Within a porphyry crypt the murderous light
Of garnet-crusted lamps whereunder sit
Perturbéd men that tremble at a sound,
And ponder words on ghastly vellum writ,
In vipers' blood, to whispers from the night--
Infernal rubrics, sung to Satan's might,
Or chaunted to the Dragon in his gyre.
But she would blot from memory the sight,
And seeks a stainéd twilight of the South,
Where crafty gnomes with scarlet eyes conspire
To quench Aldebaran's affronting fire,
Low sparkling just beyond their cavern's mouth,
Above a wicked queen's unhallowed tomb.
There lichens brown, incredulous of fame,
Whisper to veinéd flowers her body's shame,
'Mid stillness of all pageantries of bloom.
Within, lurk orbs that graven monsters clasp;
Red-embered rubies smolder in the gloom,
Betrayed by lamps that nurse a sullen flame,
And livid roots writhe in the marble's grasp,
As moaning airs invoke the conquered rust
Of lordly helms made equal in the dust.
Without, where baleful cypresses make rich
The bleeding sun's phantasmagoric gules,
Are fungus-tapers of the twilight witch
(Seen by the bat above unfathomed pools)
And tiger-lilies known to silent ghouls,
Whose king hath digged a somber carcanet
And necklaces with fevered opals set.
But Fancy, well affrighted at his gaze,
Flies to a violet headland of the West,
About whose base the sun-lashed billows blaze,
Ending in precious foam their fatal quest,
As far below the deep-hued ocean molds,
With waters' toil and polished pebbles' fret,
The tiny twilight in the jacinth set,
With wintry orb the moonstone-crystal holds,
Snapt coral twigs and winy agates wet,
Translucencies of jasper, and the folds
Of banded onyx, and vermilion breast
Of cinnabar. Anear on orange sands,
With prows of bronze the sea-stained galleys rest,
And swarthy mariners from alien strands
Stare at the red horizon, for their eyes
Behold a beacon burn on evening skies,
As fed with sanguine oils at touch of night.
Forth from that pharos-flame a radiance flies,
To spill in vinous gleams on ruddy decks;
And overside, when leap the startled waves
And crimson bubbles rise from battle-wrecks,
Unresting hydras wrought of bloody light
Dip to the ocean's phosphorescent caves.
So Fancy's carvel seeks an isle afar,
Led by the Scorpion's rubescent star,
Until in templed zones she smiles to see
Black incense glow, and scarlet-bellied snakes
Sway to the tawny flutes of sorcery.
There priestesses in purple robes hold each
A sultry garnet to the sea-linkt sun,
Or, just before the colored morning shakes
A splendor on the ruby-sanded beach,
Cry unto Betelgeuse a mystic word.
But Fancy, amorous of evening, takes
Her flight to groves whence lustrous rivers run,
Thro' hyacinth, a minster wall to gird,
Where, in the hushed cathedral's jeweled gloom,
Ere Faith return, and azure censers fume,
She kneels, in solemn quietude, to mark
The suppliant day from gorgeous oriels float
And altar-lamps immure the deathless spark;
Till, all her dreams made rich with fervent hues,
She goes to watch, beside a lurid moat,
The kingdoms of the afterglow suffuse
A sentinel mountain stationed toward the night--
Whose broken tombs betray their ghastly trust,
Till bloodshot gems stare up like eyes of lust.
And now she knows, at agate portals bright,
How Circe and her poisons have a home,
Carved in one ruby that a Titan lost,
Where icy philters brim with scarlet foam,
'Mid hiss of oils in burnished caldrons tost,
While thickly from her prey his life-tide drips,
In turbid dyes that tinge her torture-dome;
As craftily she gleans her deadly dews,
With gyving spells not Pluto's queen can use,
Or listens to her victim's moan, and sips
Her darkest wine, and smiles with wicked lips.
Nor comes a god with any power to break
The red alembics whence her gleaming broths
Obscenely fume, as asp or adder froths,
To lethal mists whose writhing vapors make
Dim augury, till shapes of men that were
Point, weeping, at tremendous dooms to be,
When pillared pomps and thrones supreme shall stir,
Unstable as the foam-dreams of the sea.
But Fancy still is fugitive, and turns
To caverns where a demon altar burns,
And Satan, yawning on his brazen seat,
Fondles a screaming thing his fiends have flayed,
Ere Lilith come his indolence to greet,
Who leads from hell his whitest queens, arrayed
In chains so heated at their master's fire
That one new-damned had thought their bright attire
Indeed were coral, till the dazzling dance
So terribly that brilliance shall enhance.
But Fancy is unsatisfied, and soon
She seeks the silence of a vaster night,
Where powers of wizardry, with faltering sight
(Whenas the hours creep farthest from the noon)
Seek by the glow-worm's lantern cold and dull
A crimson spider hidden in a skull,
Or search for mottled vines with berries white,
Where waters mutter to the gibbous moon.
There, clothed in cerements of malignant light,
A sick enchantress scans the dark to curse,
Beside a caldron vext with harlot's blood,
The stars of that red Sign which spells her doom.
Then Fancy cleaves the palmy skies adverse
To sunset barriers. By the Ganges' flood
She sees, in her dim temple, Siva loom
And, visioned with the monstrous ruby, glare
On distant twilight where the burning-ghaut
Is lit with glowering pyres that seem the eyes
Of her abhorrent dragon-worms that bear
The pestilence, by Death in darkness wrought.
So Fancy's wings forsake the Asian skies,
And now her heart is curious of halls
In which dead Merlin's prowling ape hath spilt
A vial squat whose scarlet venom crawls
To ciphers bright and terrible, that tell
The sins of demons and the encharneled guilt
That breathes a phantom at whose cry the owl,
Malignly mute above the midnight well,
Is dolorous, and Hecate lifts her cowl
To mutter swift a minatory rune;
And, ere the tomb-thrown echoings have ceased,
The blue-eyed vampire, sated at her feast,
Smiles bloodily against the leprous moon.
But evening now is come, and Fancy folds
Her splendid plumes, nor any longer holds
Adventurous quest o'er stainéd lands and seas--
Fled to a star above the sunset lees,
O'er onyx waters stilled by gorgeous oils
That toward the twilight reach emblazoned coils.
And I, albeit Merlin-sage hath said,
"A vyper lurketh in ye wine-cuppe redde,"
Gaze pensively upon the way she went,
Drink at her font, and smile as one content.~ George Sterling ~very cool deep dark epic supernatural stuff. packed with swirling magics and horrors. Very long, but well worth the read. Sterling is great. [ was he also a major influence on REH ? ] Many thanks for your posts. |
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