RE Howard the poet

[Axerules]

Most of the people here have already read a few poetry from REH (the short poems at the beginning of the chapters of some Conan stories). But he wrote hundred of poems ! This is one of my favourites and most RPG gamers and Sword and Sorcery fans like you will probably appreciate it.

• Recompense,

I have not heard lutes beckon me, nor the brazon bugles call,
But once in the dim of a haunted lea I heard the silence fall.
I have not heard the regal drum, nor seen the flags unfurled,
But I have watched the dragons come, fire-eyed, across the world.

I have not seen the horsemen fall before the hurtling host,
But I have paced a silent hall where each step waked a ghost.
I have not kissed the tiger-feet of a strange-eyed golden god,
But I have walked a city's street where no man else has trod.

I have not raised the canopies that shelter revelling
kings,
But I have fled from crimson eyes and black unearthly wings.
I have not knelt outside the door to kiss a pallid
queen,
But I have seen a ghostly shore that no man else has seen.

I have not seen the standards sweep from keep and castle wall,
But I have seen a woman leap from a dragons's crimson stall,
And I have heard the strange surges boom that no man heard before,
And seen a strange black city loom on a mystic night-black shore.

And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,
And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walked the roads of Death,
And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the
gloom,
And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

I have not seen the face of Pan, nor mocked the Dryad's haste,
But I have trailed a dark-eyed Man across a windy
waste.
I have not died as men may die, nor sinned as man have sinned,
But I have reached a misty sky upon a granite
wind.
RE Howard

 

[xssurdinynexes]

I really liked that poem called Surrender...it was strange and very cool....................the return of sir Richard Grenville was also pretty awesome , he was really great at poetry obviously

 

[rgrove0172]

He was a gifted poet in his own style certainly. The verse that sticks with me always is his final one -

All fled, all done.
So lift me on the pyre:
The feast is over.
The lamps expire.

 

[VincentDarlage]

He was a gifted poet in his own style certainly. The verse that sticks with me always is his final one -

All fled, all done.
So lift me on the pyre:
The feast is over.
The lamps expire.

Yeah, it is too bad he plagiarized that one from the House of Caesar by Viola Garvin (see the article "All Fled All Done" by Rusty Burke).

There is an awesome collection of his poetry called "Always Comes Evening." Some of his poems can be found in "The Book of Robert E. Howard" and "The Second Book of Robert E. Howard." Paperbacks of the latter two can often be found on ebay.

One of my favorite poems is "A Word from the Outer Dark." Another is "Which Will Scarcely Be Understood." Both can be found in the Second Book of Robert E. Howard.

 

[rgrove0172]

Hmm... thanks for that - I didnt realize it wasnt an original. Perhaps he meant to only recite it there at the end and didnt intend for it to be considered his work.

 

[Axerules]

Vincent Darlage gave some very good advices about the poetry books. For those who want to find a few poems on the web I recommend the Cimmerian website as well as the Conan.com forum, where you will find several poems posted. And here are Vincent's favourites:

• A Word From The Outer Dark

by R.E. Howard


My ruthless hands still clutch at life --
Still like a shoreless sea
My soul beats on in rage and strife.
You may not shackle me.

My leopard eyes are still untamed,
They hold a darksome light --
A fierce and brooding gleam unnamed
That pierced primeval night.

Rear mighty temples to your god --
I lurk where shadows sway,
Till, when your drowsy guards shall nod,
To leap and rend and slay.

For I would hurl your cities down
And I would break your shrines
And give the site of every town
To thistles and to vines.

Higher the walls Nineveh
And prouder Babel's spires --
I bellowed from the desert way --
They crumbled in my fires.

For all the works of cultured man
Must fare and fade and fall.
I am the Dark Barbarian
That towers over all.

• Which Will Scarcely Be Understood

by R.E. Howard


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.