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Rhymes Of Skelos - Ages Of Fantasy Poetry

fantasy poetry history fantasy poets poems rhymes

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#1 Buxom Sorceress

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Posted 21 July 2006 - 09:20 PM

This topic is for us all to recommend and celebrate the work of OUR Favourite FANTASY POETS throughout the ages. cool.gif
>[ NB. LINKS to our other POETRY topics:
Have YOU written any new FANTASY-themed RHYMING poems yourself? then PLEASE post your NEW HYBORIAN /CONAN or other FANTASY poems in the topic Link below...

Hyborian Limmericks + Rhymes [ FUN + serious new RHYMING Fantasy poetry]


PLEASE post any NON-FANTASY poems in the topic Link below...

Swords & Words: Non-fantasy Poetry [ A wide variety of NON-fantasy poems]


------ ]
and please post any fave fantasy SONG LYRICS in here aswell?
[ more song lyrics are in *Favourite 'barbarian' Songs*...


---- ]
i hope we can compile in this new topic many great examples of FANTASY-themed poetry. poems that range from the most ancient writers - right through history to the Fantasy poets of our world today.

please post example Fantasy poems and verses, positive comments and discussion, and many LINKS to other poems. [ and any LINKS to other different genres of poetry will be most welcomed by me. i like to read all themes of varied poetry]

i am keen to read and post much older examples of fantasy poetry for now. [ but i haven't got time to research as much 'classic' poetry as i would like]
so i will leave you great fans to post and promote some of the fantasy poems of REHoward in here...[ cue a stampede of enthusiastic posts...? smile.gif ]
and BTW, please post fantasy song lyrics aswell, if you wish? its all poetry.


Ye Children of Man! whose life is a span,
Protracted with sorrow from day to day,
Naked and featherless, feeble and querulous,
Sickly calamitous creatures of clay!
Attend to the words of the Sovereign Birds,
(Immortal, illustrious, lords of the air),
Who survey from on high, with a merciful eye,
Your struggles of misery, labor, and care.

Whence you may learn and clearly discern
Such truths as attract your inquisitive turn;
Which is busied of late with a mighty debate,
A profound speculation about the creation,
And organical life, and chaotical strife,
With various notions of heavenly motions,
And rivers and oceans, and valleys and mountains,
And sources of fountains, and meteors on high,
And stars in the sky . . . We propose by and by,
(If you'll listen and hear,) to make it all clear.
And Prodicus henceforth shall pass for a dunce,
When his doubts are explained and expounded at once.

Our antiquity proved, it remains to be shown
That Love is our author and master alone;
Like him we can ramble, and gambol and fly
O'er ocean and earth, and aloft to the sky;
And all the world over, we're friends to the lover,
And when other means fail, we are found to prevail,
When a Peacock or Pheasant is sent as a present.

All lessons of primary daily concern
You have learnt from the Birds, and continue to learn,
Your best benefactors and early instructors;
We give you the warning of seasons returning.
When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat
In the middle air, with a creaking note,
Steering away to the Libyan sands,
Then careful farmers sow their lands;
The crazy vessel is hauled ashore,
The sail, the ropes, the rudder and oar
Are all unshipped and housed in store.

The shepherd is warned, by the Kite reappearing,
To muster his flock, and be ready for shearing.
You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's behest,
In assurance of summer, and purchase a vest.
For Delphi, for Ammon, Dodona, in fine
For every oracular temple and shrine,
The Birds are a substitute equal and fair,
For on us you depend, and to us you repair
For counsel and aid when a marriage is made,
A purchase, a bargain, a venture in trade:
Unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck ye,
An ox or an ass that may happen to pass,
A voice in the street, or a slave that you meet,
A name or a word by chance overheard,
If you deem it an omen, you call it a Bird;
And if birds are your omens, it clearly will follow
That birds are a proper prophetic Apollo.
by Aristophanes (c. 448-380 B.C.) Greek comedy writer.
This English translation, by John Hookham Frere 1893.

[ a clever rhyming poem over 2,300 years old: about fantasy omens, customs, fears, and ancient Gods.
see, not all fantasy poems have to be about *swords & sorcery, Vikings, horrific monsters, weird tales, and buxom sirens*? wink.gif
but i DO hope you find plenty like *that* and post them here for us all to enjoy? please?] smile.gif

Edited by Buxom Sorceress, 13 October 2014 - 06:16 AM.

HYBORIAN Limericks + Rhymes
Lots of FUN and serious new RHYMING Hyborian/Fantasy poetry.

"So I took to a life of adventure and daring
leaving most warriors drooling and staring.
After I danced with my exotic flesh baring
I would vanish into the new Sunrise glaring."

#2 Buxom Sorceress

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Posted 21 July 2006 - 09:55 PM

here is an example of old non-rhyming prose in verse. i find it interesting as a classic old fantasy story. it is hailed by many as classic poetry. my fave poetry is rhyming verse.
please post your fave fantasy tales here, whether they be in rhyme or plain prose like this...

~~ Beowulf Fights the Dragon ~~ [ small sample]

..After these words
the dragon angrily came;
the terrible spirit
another time attacked
with surging fire.
Fire waves burned
Wiglaf's shield
down to the handle,
his mail could not
protect the young
He ducked behind
his kinsman's shield.

Then the war-king
remembered past deeds,
struck mightily with his sword
so that it stuck
in the dragon's head;
Naegling, the great sword of Beowulf,
ancient and shining,
broke, failed in battle.
Fate had not granted that
the iron sword would help.

(I've heard that Beowulf's
swing was too strong
for any sword,
overstrained any blade,
anytime he carried
a blood-hardened sword
into battle.)

Then the terrible dragon
a third time rushed,
hot and battle-grim.
He bit Beowulf's neck
with sharp tusks--Beowulf
was wet with life's blood;
blood gushed in waves...
from The Adventures of Beowulf - an Adaptation from the Old English by Dr. David Breeden.
here is the link to the whole saga...


---- :)

#3 PaulMc


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Posted 21 July 2006 - 10:47 PM

Well, I can't post anything modern for fear of copyright issues. But I really like Karl Edward Wagner's "Midnight Sun". And, to be honest, my favorite fantasy poem by far is Robert E. Howard's "The Return of Sir Richard Grenville".

Beowulf and Gilgamesh make the list.

I generally like the Norse Eddas, though I haven't read enough of them. I've read prose translations of the Vinland and Greenland Sagas. Maybe someday I will find a verse translation.

I'm sure I'm forgetting plenty. Some of E. A. Poe's poems were fantastical in nature.

-- Paul McNamee

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#4 Mikey_C


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Posted 22 July 2006 - 12:08 PM

Great thread! :D

Clark Ashton Smith is the first poet who springs to mind. Here is his last ever poem (written 4 June, 1961, he died on 14 August that year):


The sorcerer departs ... and his high tower is drowned
Slowly by low flat communal seas that level all ...
While crowding centuries retreat, return and fall
Into the cyclic gulf that girds the cosmos round,
Widening, deepening ever outward without bound ...
Till the oft-rerisen bells from young Atlantis call;
And again the wizard-mortised tower upbuilds its wall
Above a re-beginning cycle, turret-crowned.

New-born, the mage re-summons stronger spells, and spirits
With dazzling darkness clad about, and fierier flame
Renewed by aeon-curtained slumber. All the powers
Of genii and Solomon the sage inherits;
And there, to blaze with blinding glory the bored hours,
He calls upon the Sham-hamphorash, the nameless Name.

It's touching that this poem has echoes of HP Lovecraft's tribute to him, which incidentally was HPL's last poem, written at the end of 1936:

To Klarkash-Ton, Lord of Averoigne

A time-black tower against dim banks of cloud;
Around its base the pathless, pressing wood,
Shadow and silence, moss and mould, enshroud
Grey, age-fell'd slabs that once as cromlechs stood
No fall of foot, no song of bird awakes
The lethal aisles of sempiternal night,
Tho' oft with stir of wings the dense air shakes,
As in the tower there glows a pallid light.

For here, apart, dwells one whose hands have wrought
Strange eidola that chill the world with fear;
Whose graven runes in tones have dread have taught
What things beyond the star-gulfs lurk and leer.
Dark Lord of Averoigne - whose windows stare
On pits of dream no other gaze could bear!

From more 'mainstream' poets, my favourite has to be Keats':

La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

The original femme fatale!

Posted Image

I'm sure REH would have appreciated William Morris's early poems (he got a bit bland and boring in later years, although Sigurd the Volsung is brilliant):

The Haystack in the Floods

HAD she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?
Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.

By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride
Ahead, to see what might betide
When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when
There rose a murmuring from his men,
Had to turn back with promises;
Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup : all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.

For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way
That Judas, Godmar, and the three.
Red running lions dismally
Grinn'd from his pennon, under which,
In one straight line along the ditch,
They counted thirty heads.

So then,
While Robert turn'd round to his men,
She saw at once the wretched'end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said :
'Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,
At Poictiers where we made them run
So fast?why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near,
Nought after this,'

But, '0,' she said,
'My God! my God! I have to tread
The long way back without you; then
The court at Paris; those six men;
The gratings of the Chatelet;
The swift Seine on some rainy day
Like this, and people standing by,
And laughing, while my weak hands try
To recollect how strong men swim.
All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last,
Would God that this next hour were past!'

He answer'd not, but cried his cry,
'St. George for Marny!' cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast
Upon his sword-hilts, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.

Then they went along
To Godmar; who said: 'Now, Jehane,
Your lover's life is on the wane
So fast, that, if this very hour
You yield not as my paramour,
He will not see the rain leave off-
Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff,
Sir Robert, or I slay you now.'
She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and -- 'No.'
She said, and turn'd her head away,
As there were nothing else to say,
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
'Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands :
What hinders me from taking you,
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?'

A wicked smile
Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,
A long way out she thrust her chin: go
'You know that I should strangle you
While you were sleeping; or bite through
Your throat, by God's help-ah!' she said,
'Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!
For in such wise they hem me in,
I cannot choose but sin and sin,
Whatever happens : yet I think
They could not make me eat or drink,
And so should I just reach my rest.'
'Nay, if you do not my behest,
O Jehane! though I love you well,'
Said Godmar, 'would I fail to tell
All that I know.' 'Foul lies,' she said.
'Eh? lies my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true!
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you,
"Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to bum or drown!"--
Eh -- gag me Robert! -- sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end no
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it -- So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take
Of life or death!'

So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards : with her face
Turn'd upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay,
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said:
'I will not.' Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turn'd
Most sharply round, and his face burn'd.

For Robert -- both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily
He seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reach'd out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor grey lips, and now the hem
Of his sleeve brush'd them.

With a start
Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart;
From Robert's throat he loosed the bands
Of silk and mail; with empty hands
Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw,
The long bright blade without a flaw
Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand
In Robert's hair; she saw him bend
Back Robert's head; she saw him send
The thin steel down; the blow told well,
Right backward the knight Robert fell,
And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead,
Unwitting, as I deem : so then
Godmar turn'd grinning to his men,
Who ran, some five or six, and beat
His head to pieces at their feet.

Then Godmar turn'd again and said:
'So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!
Take note, my lady, that your way
Lies backward to the Chatelet!'
She shook her head and gazed awhile
At her cold hands with a rueful smile,
As though this thing had made her mad.

This was the parting that they had
Beside the haystack in the floods.

There are some great old ballads like Tom o' Bedlam:

"From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye,
All the sprites that stand by the naked man
In the book of moons, defend ye."

and Thomas the Rhymer (quoted in The Worm Ouroboros, no less):

"True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank,
A ferlie he spied wi' his ee,
And there he saw a lady bright,
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fine,
At ilka tett her horse's mane
Hang fifty siller bells and nine.

True Thomas, he pulld aff his cap,
And louted low down to his knee:
'All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth I never did see.'

'Oh no, O no, Thomas,' she said,
'That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.'"

As you said you would also like some song lyrics, Buxom, I think this amusing offering from one of my favourite bands, Blyth Power will be just up your street:

Rowan's Riding

There was a young man from Spalding town
Riding along and alone he came
Stopped for a night at the Rose and Crown
Riding along on a roan

He called for a quart of strong brown ale
Riding along and alone he came
Took to his room where he rang the bell
Riding along on a roan

When the potgirl came to his room by and by
Riding along and alone he came
He tipped her a wink and slapped her thigh
Riding along on a roan

Kind sir she said have done have done
Riding along and alone he came
Then pulled out a switchblade sharp and long
Riding along on a roan

She slashed him first from his ear to his throat
Riding along and alone he came
Then made him a dame with a backhand stroke
Riding along on a roan

Do you follow me
If you follow me
Round where the Ouse rolls down to the sea
Until dawn light serenade me
It will soon be your night you'll see

"There is no lesson here to learn beyond the necessity of observing the common grounds of decency..."

Indeed! :lol:

Edited by Mikey_C, 22 July 2006 - 12:20 PM.

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#5 Kortoso


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Posted 23 July 2006 - 04:40 AM

Is that a Waterhouse? Nice.

#6 Beast from the Abyss

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Posted 23 July 2006 - 04:42 PM

Awesome idea Buxom! I can't wait to see what treasures get unearthed in this thread!


#7 PainBrush


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Posted 23 July 2006 - 11:44 PM

Is that a Waterhouse? Nice.

That is a Waterhouse painting - after Sir Alma-Tadema the 2nd best of the pre-raphaelite painters (I.M.O.) - wow I guess those art history classes I had to take back in college actually were useful !! hahaha

By request of the Buxom one - here's a good & humorous poem copied from the other poetry topic thread -


In days of yore the great god Thor
would romp around creation.
He'd drink a pint and slay a giant
and save the Nordic nation.
Or kill a worm to watch it squirm
and vainly try to fang him.
Or lock up Loki in the pokey
and on the noggin bang him.

Once he did bawl through Thrudvang Hall
that on a trip he'd wander
in a disguise from prying eyes
in Midgard way out yonder.
So all his slaves , and carles and knaves
packed up his goods and gear, "O",
and off he strode on bifrost road
a perfect Aryan hero.

In Midgard land he joined a band
of hardy Viking ruffians,
and off they sailed and rowed and bailed
among the auks & puffins.
When'er they'd reach a foreign beach
they stopped to raid and plunder;
Each Nordic brute got so much loot
their longship near went under.

But tho they rolled in coins of gold
they had one joy forsaken.
For each raid Thors party made
no women could be taken.
Each drab and queen fled the scene
when Viking sails were sighted.
And Thor felt needs for certain deeds
that had gone unrequited.

Thors brows were black as they went back
to Oslos rocky haven;
unto his crew he said,
"Beshrew me for a Frankish craven
if I don't wrench some tavern wench,
or else may Frigga damn her !"
Replied one voice, "You have first choice;
you've got the biggest hammer !"

Into an inn that crew of sin
disbarked upon their landing.
Each tavern maid was sore afraid
of pirates of such standing.
But golden coins warmed up their loins
and soon the ale ran free.
Thors motley crew poured down the brew
and made an all night spree.

Thors glances strayed unto a maid
with hair as gold as grain
a lisp so shy, a downcast eye,
and not a trace of brain;
he swept her charms into his arms
and to an upstairs bower.
He did not cease nor give her ease
for six days and an hour !

When he rose up and drained a cup
she looked like one near death;
her limbs were weak, she could not speak
and only gasped for breath.

" You ought know, before I go , I'M THOR . "

and he bade her adieu.
"YOU'RE THOR !?!"said she
"Conthider ME !
- I'm much thorer thir than you !! "

- John Boardman

Edited by PAINBRUSH, 24 July 2006 - 02:48 PM.

" You have a good point there,...put your helmet on & no-one will notice it ."
" Look for a long time at what pleases you... and longer still at what pains you "
So THIS is civilization ??!??!......

Posted ImagePosted ImagePosted Image

#8 Kortoso


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Posted 01 August 2006 - 04:44 PM

~ The Second Coming ~[/b]
William Butler Yeats (1920)

One of my favorites. Once I was at an art exhibition where an artist had collected paperback book covers. The books were all titles from the lines from this poem, as writers sometimes do. So the entire collection of covers was glued up together to display the entire poem. Very interesting perspective.

#9 Buxom Sorceress

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Posted 02 August 2006 - 03:52 AM

~~~ Fear no more ~~~

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
[ a fantasy about death. by William Shakespeare - from Cymbeline, Act IV, Scene 2]
[ i dedicate this posting to REHoward. and i will be singing his praises later in this thread.]
TO ALL - my sincere THANKS for all the poems and song lyrics posted in here so far. great stuff! B)
we can all help each other to enjoy a far wider variety of good fantasy poetry with our combined posts and Links in here.
i am just a beginner in the exploration of ages of classic fantasy poetry, so i need all the help i can get, please?

so please keep uncovering the ancient dusty tomes? keep on exploring the deep secrets of the Stygian tombs? many more fabled 'Rhymes of Skelos' are still to be re-discovered...

oh, and can anyone please post any examples and links of old Norse/Viking poetry? [ poems or sagas about the gods and monsters and warriors of Asgard, etc.?] :)

#10 Mikey_C


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Posted 02 August 2006 - 11:21 AM

Tennyson's Cthulhuesque The Kraken:

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battering upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by men and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
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#11 godzilladude



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Posted 02 August 2006 - 01:42 PM

Need some REH in here.

One of my faves, as it let's everyone know who you're dealing with.


The little poets sing of little things:
Hope, cheer, and faith, small queens and puppet kings;
Lovers who kissed and then were made as one,
And modest flowers waving in the sun.

The mighty poets write in blood and tears
And agony that, flame-like, bites and sears.
They reach their mad blind hands into the night,
To plumb abysses dead to human sight;
To drag from gulfs where lunacy lies curled,
Mad, monstrous nightmare shapes to blast the world.

I heard some REH fan had his teenager do a stack of REH for a class project, including this one. Really lit them up!

Or how about this little ditty.


(Originally published in Weird Tales)

They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the market-place;
At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face.
?Ho, neighbors all,? spake Adam Brand, ?see ye John Farrel?s fate!
?Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man?s hate!

?For heard ye not John Farrel?s vow to be avenged on me
Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!?
Yet never a word the people spake, in fear and wild surprize?
For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes,

And with strange motions, slow and stiff, pointed at Adam Brand
And clambered down the gibbet tree, the noose within its hand.
With gaping mouth stood Adam Brand like a statue carved of stone,
Till the dead man laid a clammy hand hard on his shoulder-bone.

Then Adam shrieked like a soul in hell; the red blood left his face
And he reeled away in a drunken run through the screaming market-place;
And close behind, the dead man came with face like a mummy?s mask,
And the dead joints cracked and the stiff legs creaked with their unwanted task.

Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,
And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.
He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;
So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead.

At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;
Across him fell John Farrel?s corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.
There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,
For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp.

His lips writhed in a horrid grin like a fiend?s on Satan?s coals,
And the men that looked on his face that day, his stare still haunts their souls.
Such was the fate of Adam Brand, a strange, unearthly fate;
For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man?s hate.

Now THAT'S what I'm talking about!

#12 godzilladude



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Posted 02 August 2006 - 03:29 PM

Or this one:

The Day That I Die

The day that I die shall the sky be clear
And the east sea-wind blow free,
Sweeping along with its rover's song
To bear my soul to sea.

They will carry me out of the bamboo hut
To the driftwood piled on the lea,
And ye that name me in after years,
This shall ye say of me:

That I followed the road of the restless gull
As free as a vagrant breeze,
That I bared my breast to the winds' unrest
And the wrath of the driving seas.

That I loved the song of the thrumming spars
And the lift of the plunging prow,
But I could not bide in the seaport towns
And I could not follow the plow.

For ever the wind came out of the east
To beckon me on and on,
The sunset's lure was my paramour
And I loved each rose-pale dawn.

That I lived to a straight and simple creed
The whole of my wordly span
White or black or yellow I dealt
Foursquare with my fellow man.

That I drained life's cup to its blood-red lees
And it thrilled my every vein,
I did not frown when I laid it down
To lift it never again.

That ever my spirit turned my steps
To the naked morning lands
And I came to rest on an unknown isle --
Jade cliffs and silver sands.

And I breathed my last with a simple tribe,
A people savage and free,
And they gave my body unto the fire
And my soul to the reinless sea.

#13 Kortoso


    -=Reiver of the Western Marches=-

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Posted 03 August 2006 - 05:35 PM

The Men that Don't Fit In
by: Robert W. Service

There's A race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far,
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

#14 Buxom Sorceress

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Posted 31 August 2006 - 07:39 AM

Tennyson's Cthulhuesque The Kraken:

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell...

that old Kraken poem is remarkable! what a find! B)
i can just imagine Lovecraft and Howard [and many others] being inspired by it.
any more like that please?
my thanks for ALL fantasy poems in here. please keep them coming? :)
Dig deep into the attics and bowels of your homes
to uncover more forgotten dusty poetic tomes.

#15 Buxom Sorceress

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    costume parade...

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Posted 31 August 2006 - 07:46 AM

~~~ *ATHANASIA* ~~~

TO that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band
Which swathed the Egyptian's body,--lo! was found
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure
That all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily's paramour,
Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white
At its own beauty, hung across the stream,
The purple dragon-fly had no delight
With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,
Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,
Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

For love of it the passionate nightingale
Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,
And the pale dove no longer cared to sail
Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,
But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,
With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue
A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,
And the warm south with tender tears of dew
Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky
On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

But when o'er wastes of lily-haunted field
The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,
And broad and glittering like an argent shield
High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,
Did no strange dream or evil memory make
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years
Seemed but the lingering of a summer's day,
It never knew the tide of cankering fears
Which turn a boy's gold hair to withered grey,
The dread desire of death it never knew,
Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

For we to death with pipe and dancing go,
Now would we pass the ivory gate again,
As some sad river wearied of its flow
Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,
Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!
And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

We mar our lordly strength in barren strife
With the world's legions led by clamorous care,
It never feels decay but gathers life
From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,
We live beneath Time's wasting sovereignty,
It is the child of all eternity.
[ by Oscar Wilde 1854-1900. 'Athanasia' was originally published in Time (1879). It was revised for Poems (1881).
NB. *Athanasia*= The quality of being deathless; immortality.]
i especially like the 1st 2 verses, and the last 2. :)

#16 tofu



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Posted 01 September 2006 - 12:39 AM

Not gonna type it but real partial to "Annabelle Lee" and the "Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe.
Warfighting Philosophy:
Shatter the Enemys cohesion through a variety of rapid,focused,unexpected actions which create a turbulent and rapid deteriorating sitchuation in which the enemy cannot cope. Department of the Navy.

Facinated at birth with the power of a Gun, Trained as a Troop to weild one effectively, and still loveing them today.

Nothing beats a well placed sling shot to the bridge of the nose=)

#17 Buxom Sorceress

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Posted 24 September 2006 - 09:39 AM

...The Northmen came about our land
A Christless chivalry:
Who knew not of the arch or pen,
Great, beautiful, half-witted men
From sunrise and the sea.

Misshapen ships stood on the deep
Full of strange gold and fire,
And hairy men, as huge as sin,
With horn?d heads, came wading in
Through the long, low sea-mire.

Our towns were shaken of tall kings
With scarlet beards like blood;
The world turned empty where they trod,
They took the kindly cross of God
And cut it up for wood.

Their souls were drifting as the sea,
And all good towns and lands
They only saw with heavy eyes
And broke with heavy hands.

Their gods were sadder than the sea,
Gods of a wandering will,
Who cried for blood like beasts at night,
Sadly, from hill to hill.

They seemed as trees walking the earth,
As witless and as tall,
Yet they took hold upon the heavens
And no help came at all.

They bred like birds in English woods,
They rooted like the rose,
When Alfred came to Athelney
To hide him from their bows.

There was not English armour left,
Nor any English thing,
When Alfred came to Athelney
To be an English king.

For earthquake swallowing earthquake
Uprent the Wessex tree;
The whirlpool of the pagan sway
Had swirled his sires as sticks away
When a flood smites the sea.

And the great kings of Wessex
Wearied and sank in gore,
And even their ghosts in that great stress
Grew greyer and greyer, less and less
With the lords that died in Lyonesse
And the king that comes no more...
by G.K. Chesterton 1874-1936.
this is a small sample part of his 'The Ballad of the White Horse' - a huge epic rhyming poem. read it in full at this site LINK...


[ in the POETRY section, and there are more examples of his work]
come on guys? please introduce me to MORE of your fave fantasy poets? if you can't post a poem, then just a recommendation and a LINK would be nice. :)

#18 Mikey_C


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Posted 24 September 2006 - 12:14 PM

Lamia by John Keats. Evil serpent disguised as femme fatale... well I won't spoil the story!
Visit my blog: Necronomania

#19 PainBrush


    In Memoriam: 2005-2009. Bastard son of a thousand nations!

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Posted 03 October 2006 - 12:14 AM

- Song to the Siren -

Long afloat on shipless oceans ,
I did all my best to smile .
Til your singing eyes and fingers
drew me loving to your isle .

Then you sang " Sail to me .
Sail to me , Let me enfold you . "
- Well here I am .
Here I am , waiting to hold you .

Did I dream you dreamed about me ?
Were you hare when I was fox ?
Now my foolish boat is leaning ,
broken , lovelorn on your rocks .

For you sing " Touch me not . "
" Touch me not , come back tomorrow . "
Oh my heart .
My heart shatters from the sorrow.

Well I'm as puzzled as the newborn child .
I'm as riddled as the tide .
Should I stand amid the breakers ?
Or should I lie with death , my bride ?

Hear me sing , - " Swim to me .
Swim to me , let me enfold you .
Here I am .
Here I am , waiting to hold you . "

- T. Buckley .
Posted Image

" You have a good point there,...put your helmet on & no-one will notice it ."
" Look for a long time at what pleases you... and longer still at what pains you "
So THIS is civilization ??!??!......

Posted ImagePosted ImagePosted Image

#20 PainBrush


    In Memoriam: 2005-2009. Bastard son of a thousand nations!

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Posted 15 October 2006 - 08:15 AM

- Songs from an Evil Wood -

There is no wrath in the stars,
They do not rage in the sky;
I look from the evil wood
And find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream out
And grapple star against star,
Seeking for blood in the wood,
As all things round me are?

They do not glare like the sky
Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
But they shine softly on
In their sacred solitude.

To their happy haunts
Silence from us has flown,
She whom we loved of old
And know it now she is gone.

When will she come again
Though for one second only?
She whom we loved is gone
And the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants come
Sometimes, tramping from far,
Through the weird and flickering light
Made by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club,
And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
And the elder giants from far,
They are the children of Death.

They are all abroad to-night
And are breaking the hills with their brood,
And the birds are all asleep,
Even in Plugstreet Wood.

Somewhere lost in the haze
The sun goes down in the cold,
And birds in this evil wood
Chirrup home as of old;

Chirrup, stir and are still,
On the high twigs frozen and thin.
There is no more noise of them now,
And the long night sets in.

Of all the wonderful things
That I have seen in the wood,
I marvel most at the birds,
At their chirp and their quietude.

For a giant smites with his club
All day the tops of the hill,
Sometimes he rests at night,
Oftener he beats them still.

And a dwarf with a grim black mane
Raps with repeated rage
All night in the valley below
On the wooden walls of his cage.

I met with Death in his country,
With his scythe and his hollow eye
Walking the roads of Belgium.
I looked and he passed me by.

Since he passed me by in Plug Street,
In the wood of the evil name,
I shall not now lie with the heroes,
I shall not share their fame;

I shall never be as they are,
A name in the land of the Free,
Since I looked on Death in Flanders
And he did not look at me.

- Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett -
-- 18th Baron Lord Dunsany

The month of October seems the best time for reading Dunsanys stuff - it just has that mood to it .

" You have a good point there,...put your helmet on & no-one will notice it ."
" Look for a long time at what pleases you... and longer still at what pains you "
So THIS is civilization ??!??!......

Posted ImagePosted ImagePosted Image