The Verse of REH

[deuce]

Up, John Kane!

Up, John Kane, the grey night's falling;

The sun's sunk in blood and the fog comes crawling;

From hillside to hill the grey wolves are calling;

Will ye come, will ye come, John Kane?



What of the oath that you swore by the river

Where the black shadows lurk and the sun comes never,

And a Shape in the shadows wags its grisly head forever?


You swore by the blood-crust that stained your dagger,

By the haunted woods where hoofed feet swagger,

And under grisly burdens misshapen creatures stagger.



Up, John Kane, and cease your quaking!

You have made the pact which has no breaking,

And your brothers are eager their thirst to be slaking.



Up, John Kane! Why cringe there, and cower?

The pact was sealed with the dark blood-flower;

Glut now your fill in the werewolf 's hour!



Fear not the night nor the shadows that play there;

Soundless and sure shall your bare feet stray there;

Strong shall your teeth be, to rend and to slay there.



Up, John Kane, the thick night's falling;

Up from the valleys the white fog's crawling;

Your four-footed brothers from the hills are calling:

Will ye come, will ye come, John Kane?

~ REH ~

*Art by Greg Staples

[deuce]

This has a bit of a Celtic feel to it...


Moon Mockery

I walked in Tara's Wood one summer night,

And saw, amid the still, star-haunted skies,

A slender moon in silver mist arise,

And hover on the hill as if in fright.

Burning, I seized her veil and held her tight:

An instant all her glow was in my eyes;

Then she was gone, swift as a white bird flies,



And I went down the hill in opal light.

And soon I was aware, as down I came,

That all was strange and new on every side;

Strange people went about me to and fro,

And when I spoke with trembling mine own name

They turned away, but one man said: "He died

In Tara Wood, a hundred years ago."

~ REH ~

[deuce]

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 the 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 sets 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 a 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 soul's red caverns loud

The rattle of the 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 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 ~

[buxom9sorceress]

My thanks to ALL posters for all poems & info in here.



Howard's poetry shines and fascinates in many different ways.

Bob is a 'Giant Bard' who stands strong and tall among all the greatest poets.

[deuce]

"Weird poetry possesses an appeal peculiar to itself and the careful use of it raises the quality of any magazine."


-- Robert E. Howard to Charles D. Hornig, 1 November 1933, CL3.140


"Most of Two-Gun’s verse has never been submitted for publication. Some of it really marvelous in its savage, barbaric potency."

-- HPL to Richard F. Searight, 5 Mar 1935, LRS 48 (re: “Voices of the Night: 2. Babel” in Jan 1935 Fantasy Fan)

[Von K]

Some great sleuthing there once again Sam!

And thanks, Deuce, for all those REH poetry posts!

[fernando]

Mar 12, 2016 13:21:59 GMT -5 deuce said:

Victory


Red fires in the North are glowing bright,

And tom-tom thump through the whispering night.

Aye, the jungle knows to the least leaf-blade

That the men of Mafu are back from the raid:


Back with the heads of a hundred braves,

Back with a hundred female slaves.

Aye, the men for the loot are throwing lots,

While the women bend to the cooking pots.


And the night wind blows,

And the jungle knows,

That the men of Mafu

Have smote their foes.


Chiefs and councillors haste to glut

At the feast in Mafu’s palace-hut.

They stride through the door and a bead of red

Unheeded falls on each feathered head.


And scarce an eye turns toward the ghastly thing

That once was the head of Goru’s king:

He that died at the height of pride,

Hung high, feet to a cross-beam tied.


And the echoes thrum

To the roaring drum

That boasts of the foemen

Mafu’s overcome.


And fire-light gleams as lithe forms prance;

Mafu’s warriors spin in a blood-crazed dance.

The great fire chuckles in crimson blast

As the naked, leaping forms lurch past.


Like shadow-things in the shifting light,

They leap in a ghastly voodoo rite,

And the firelight gleams on white teeth bare

In fierce-eyed faces, amid flying hair.


And the dancers whirl

Through the shadowy swirl,

Mocking the shrieks

Of a captive girl.


Far to the East ’neath a baobab tree,

By a sullen river that runs to the sea,

Smolders a heap of ruins laid

In the midst of a ruined palisade.


Veiled by a grisly, yellow smoke,

No sound is heard save the vulture’s croak

And the jackals’ snarl at the cindered bones—

Unheeding, the sullen river drones.


And the river flows,

And the night wind blows,

Sifting the ashes

Of Mafu’s foes.

~ REH ~

Hey, Deuce!  I just finished translating this poem - it's a great one! My only doubt is: when does this story take place?

[deuce]

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)

[deuce]

The Tavern

There stands, close by a dim, wolf-hunted wood,
A tavern like a monster, brooding thing.
About its sullen gables no birds sing.
Oft a lone traveler, when the moon is blood,
Lights from his horse in quest of sleep and meal.
His footfalls fade within and sound no more;
He comes not forth; but from the secret door


Bearing a grisly burden, shadows steal.
By day, ‘neath trees whose silent, green leaves glisten,
The tavern crouches, hating day and light.
A lurking vampire, terrible and lean;
Sometimes behind its windows may be seen
Vague leprous faces, haggard, fungus-white,
That peer and start and ever seem to listen.

~ REH ~

[zarono]

May 19, 2016 13:04:54 GMT -5 deuce said:

The Tavern

There stands, close by a dim, wolf-hunted wood,
A tavern like a monster, brooding thing.
About its sullen gables no birds sing.
Oft a lone traveler, when the moon is blood,
Lights from his horse in quest of sleep and meal.
His footfalls fade within and sound no more;
He comes not forth; but from the secret door


Bearing a grisly burden, shadows steal.
By day, ‘neath trees whose silent, green leaves glisten,
The tavern crouches, hating day and light.
A lurking vampire, terrible and lean;
Sometimes behind its windows may be seen
Vague leprous faces, haggard, fungus-white,
That peer and start and ever seem to listen.

~ REH ~

Awesome! Perfect pic too

[deuce]

The REH verse index at Howard Works:



howardworks.com/alphaverse.html

[deuce]

A Dull Sound as of Knocking

Who raps here on my door tonight,

Stirring my sleep with the deadened sound?

Here in my Room there is naught of light,

And silence locks me round.


The taste of the earth is in my mouth,

Stillness, decay and lack of light,

And dull as doom the rapping

Thuds on my Door tonight.


My Room is narrow and still and black,

In such have kings and beggars hid;

And falling clods are the knuckles

That rap on my coffin lid.

~ REH ~

[deuce]

In one segment of this podcast, Rusty Burke discusses some source poems that inspired REH and how Bob "recast" them into a completely different feel. Click in at about 1:07:30...



archive.org/details/thecromcastS4E16-MenOfTheShadows08172016

[deuce]

A Legend of Faring Town

Her house, a moulting buzzard on the Hill

Loomed gaunt and brooding over Faring town;

Behind, there sloped away the barren down

And at its foot an ancient, crumbling mill.

And often in the evening bleak and still,

With withered limbs wrapped in a sombre gown

And leathery face set in a sombre frown,

She sat in silence on her silent sill.


She came to Faring town long years ago—

With her a winsome child, the ancients said,

She vanished, where, the people did not know—

Meg mended ropes for ocean vessels’ sails

And let the people think the child was dead—

She did not speak, but there were darksome tales.


One night the village flamed with sudden red—

From off Meg’s roof we saw the cinders stream.

She came not forth—we entered—and in the gleam,

Saw her crouching, like a thing of dread,

Above a skeleton within her bed.

“Child slayer!” I still hear the women scream—

High a red and cinder spitting beam;

We hanged her and the flames consumed the dead.


A book we found, and written piteously

In Meg’s sad scrawl: “Today my darling died

“But she shall sleep forever by my side—

“They shall not give her to the cruel sea.”

We cringed and gazed in terror and in shame

Where still a form swung black against the flame.

~ REH ~

[deuce]

Night Images was one of the great collections of Howard's poetry...

howardworks.com/images.htm