264 replies to this topic

[Sermon Bath]

Sermon Bath, you bring fresh horror to what had been a tired old cliche.

thanks man, I really appreciate your positive input

[Buxom Sorceress]

~~~~
Just a man
in my prime
Love was there
But I had no time
I was cheered
and adored
And I thought fame
Was all the world

Battles won
and victory cheers
Were the sounds
I'd heard for years
But the Woman
I really loved
Was losing me
To all this blood

I only knew
I had to win
And build a world
Where I was King
But leaders come
and leaders go
And that's the truth
I came to know

Love or war
I could not choose
And so both
I had to lose.
~~~~

[ from uriah heep: pilgrim lyrics; last section. ]

-----
THANKS for all poems posted in here.
more, please?
-----

Edited by Buxom Sorceress, 24 October 2009 - 07:30 PM.

[Sardonikus]

This is an original work, but I owe a great deal to REH for his spiritual inspiration. If his influence is evident here, so much the better! - JWM



Shade of a Murdered Child by James W. McNew

I glimpsed her as she walked the wood
I quailed to see her there
I felt the ice build in my blood
The vise grip of despair

No bird did sing its happy song
No beast so much as breathed
All silenced by the fearful wrong
The life so wrongly thieved

No words the specter deigned to speak
No giggling childish glee
I saw no rosy cherub cheeks
A skull grinned back at me

No gorgon visage nightmare-borne
Or devil-haunted hell
Could match the slaughtered infant's scorn
For those who live to tell

Alecto and Tisiphone
Megara at her side
They stare - they stare so balefully
At secrets that we hide

All my lies became as lashings
My sins were white-hot chains
All the walls of pride came crashing
Down on my fevered brain

I glimpsed her as she walked the wood
I quailed to see her there
Before her broken there I stood
Child-goddess of Despair

Edited by Sardonikus, 27 April 2013 - 12:53 AM.

[Sardonikus]

Here is another original - in depicting Persephone, shades of the icy temptress Atali ('The Frost Giant's Daughter') came to mind. - JWM


Persephone by James W. McNew


Darkdweller
Crippled by the cracking
The dried bone branches of dead dreams
Underfoot and crumbling
Approach and be hated

Darkdweller
Your thirsting eyes yearn
To sip the cold and rimy nectar
Drip-drip-dropping from a Boreal star
Stumble and be sated

Darkdweller
Behold my shining
Lovely limned in light of leprosy
White shadow of dead Helen
Crawl and be jaded

Darkdweller
Lay down your notched sword
Blooded black though not by other
O Knight benighted
Fall and be faded

Darkdweller
Embrace the many shades
A myriad masks-the same face ever under
Mother of pains passed and pending
Shriveled…dead…annihilated

[Sardonikus]

Finally, here is a poem which metaphorically depicts rage and its consequences. Again, I give thanks to the enduring spirit of REH: too fiery in life to be quenched by mere death! - JWM

Surtur by James W. McNew

A spark, a flicker, something there -
An ember that awakes.
An itch, a sting, a tiny flare:
Reminders that you must beware!
A caution that you have a care
Before the wave of Muspell breaks!

A groan, a growl, an oozing sore -
An ache that never goes.
A shock, a stab, a pricking sword -
The heralds of the hateful horde
Who clamor for their red reward
Will weave you in their web of woes.

A shout, a scream, a banshee wail -
A cry of rage and ire!
A spike, a spear, a flensing flail!
Drink deeply from the poisoned grail!
Will right and reason yet prevail
Or die upon the rising pyre?

Raving, roaring - chaos pouring!
All hail the holy hate!
Slashing, goring - wrath is soaring!
Fire giants gone a-warring!
Wretched worms of Midgard mourning;
Consign them all to flame and fate!

Now hushed! All cold, all ashen gloom -
The onslaught now is ceased.
No light, all dark, a silent tomb.
Enfolded in oblivion's womb,
With naught but nothing to consume:
So perishes the burning beast.

[Mikey_C]

Great stuff, Sardonikus - I particularly like the last one.

[Sardonikus]

Great stuff, Sardonikus - I particularly like the last one.

Thank you so much! But I really owe it all to REH, whom I discovered at age 5 (via a storybook & record entitled "The Crawler in the Mists"). Ever since, Howard's spirit has kept the flame of passion and imagination burning brightly, lighting my way even in the darkest of times.

I have one more poem to present here, posted below...

Thank you again for your kind comment!

[Sardonikus]

This was written shortly after a visit to the grave of REH on 24 July 2009. - JWM

The Supplicant by James W. McNew

Tattered, broken, barren, bored
Tarnished treasures, trash-heap hoard
Bitter, sullen, saddened, strained
Flailings of a dying brain

Crawling, creeping, oozing hate
Listening for the final bell
Dreaming of the final fate
The hempen hole, the gate to Hell

Bent before the bard’s green grave
A husk, a wreck, a worm, a slave
Praying, begging, blind and lame
Groping for a phoenix flame

Whispers, maybe – ancient mumblings
Counsel from a moldered sage
Fear ye not the distant rumblings
Let the bonfires once more rage

Girded, straightened, strengthened, striding
Glittering glory, gray eyes shining
Loving! Lusting! Pleasure! Pain!
By dead hand brought to life again!

[Buxom Sorceress]

Hi Sardonikus.

my faves are...

The Supplicant
and
Surtur
.
Very good poems indeed.

Thanks very much for sharing them with us.
More, please ?

Best wishes from me.

[Freebooter]

Here is one I threw together a few years ago about how archers at one time were not appreciated and oft times considered cowards (Greek days, etc). I have posted this before, when I first wrote it, but figured, why not, post it again!:
------------------------
BOWSTRING'S TWANG AND HISS OF ARROW!
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 to the field 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 only 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, and 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 Champaign 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 heroes' music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang or hiss of arrow!

With sun on shield and sparkle of spear the horde advances and comes 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 flank or rearward atop a knoll, cowards say some, do the archers stand,
Hearts thumping, eyes searching, their bows at the ready and arrow in hand.
For in battle s heat when hangs the balance error's margin be narrow.
For of heroes' 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 such loss as we could barely afford.
To the archers' ears there came a song, and lo, from amidst the dead, crimsoned Aarms held high, turned they; our hoste, with lifted voice sang Footmen, Knight,
King, and Harold;
Hail archers; For of heroes' music none is sweeter than bowstring's twang and hiss of arrow

[Sardonikus]

Thank you all for the kind comments! My next poem, Verdigris, has been posted over in Hyborian Limericks - hope you enjoy it!

[Sardonikus]

A poem about Heinrich, an 85 year old German veteran of WWII I met in 2004:

Heinrich, by James McNew

Old Heinrich's eyes are glazed with rheum; red-rimmed they range afar.
Beyond his empty glass they gaze...beyond the smoke-filled bar
And blaze blue balefire in the dark like twin Antarctic stars.

Do you dream in dusty feldgrau, mounted on a metal beast?
As you scourge the steppes of Russia, driving Ivan ever east,
Can you hear the gull-winged Stukas screaming down toward the feast?

In the wreckage bearing Stalin's name, you feel your pulse now race
And you thrust a lance of tracer-fire into a Mongol face -
While a madman's dreams of empire die within this frozen place.

Do you slump now slowly westward through the ghosts of triumphs past
In the wintry woods of Belgium as you grapple to the last
With warriors of the upstart West - the end approaching fast?

Old Heinrich's sight is dimming now; he bows his hoary head,
Stands stiffly from his corner chair and shuffles home to bed
To face anew the phantom foe: the armies of the dead.

Edited by Sardonikus, 23 August 2011 - 07:47 PM.

[Sardonikus]

~~~ Cruel Wind ~~~

As the howling Wind moans
it cuts deep through my bones.

It pierces so icy cold
it makes me feel old.

The glacial chill saps my will,
thus numbed, I feel so ill.

When my blue fate doth unfold
my frozen soul will be sold
by a norse wind very bold...
~~~

[ by me.
we've had some cruel winds recently in Yorkshire.
but when i watch 'ice road truckers' it makes me feel lucky and warmer. ]
----
thanks for all your posted poems. more please?

I have always been drawn to poems that describe the cruelty of winter, especially since I live in Arizona and don't have to deal much with such conditions.

This poem conjures forth images of storms on the frozen tundras of Asgard/Vanaheim, as well as memories of my favorite REH Conan yarn, 'The Frost Giant's Daughter'!

Very well done! Please continue to lead the way with quality works of your own!

[Buxom Sorceress]

~~~ Cruel Wind ~~~

As the howling Wind moans
it cuts deep through my bones.

It pierces so icy cold
it makes me feel old.

The glacial chill saps my will,
thus numbed, I feel so ill.

When my blue fate doth unfold
my frozen soul will be sold
by a norse wind very bold...
~~~

[ by me.
we've had some cruel winds recently in Yorkshire.
but when i watch 'ice road truckers' it makes me feel lucky and warmer. ]
----
thanks for all your posted poems. more please?

I have always been drawn to poems that describe the cruelty of winter, especially since I live in Arizona and don't have to deal much with such conditions.

This poem conjures forth images of storms on the frozen tundras of Asgard/Vanaheim, as well as memories of my favorite REH Conan yarn, 'The Frost Giant's Daughter'!

Very well done! Please continue to lead the way with quality works of your own!

Thanks very much.

I wrote a grim long poem based on
'The Frost Giant's Daughter'.
[ and it involves a huge bear... ]

'CARRION HUNTING' - is on page 18 of HYBORIAN LIMMERICKS --- topic.

Enjoy.

[duaneshadow]

the stolen child, WB Yeats:

THE POEM INTERPRETATIONS
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid out faery vats,
Full of berries
And the reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.


Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters of the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.


Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.


Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.





1886

[Buxom Sorceress]

'The Books Of Skelos' [ lyrics by Manilla Road ]

[I. THE BOOK OF ANCIENTS]
Three books of human flesh
Of Magik, life and death
Of times long lost to man
Creation of the damned

Before the ancient gods
And Dreams of Eschaton
The Ancients of the Muse
Combated Cthulu

His tentacles reach far beyond the grave
These chronicles of light and life enslaved,
Were penned in blood
Before the mighty flood

Nocturnal Lords of Death
Summoned by Dragon's Breath
To cleanse this holy land
From sea to desert sand

Like Necronomicon,
And Ancient Bardic song
These books hold many clues
To Magik law and truth

The sentinels of Hell guard every gate
These chronicles of light and life enslaved
Were penned in blood
Before the mighty flood

[II. THE BOOK OF SHADOWS]

Nightmares turned to living hell
Enchanted under the spell
Dark Lords cast upon the earth
Armageddon into birth
By the books

Holy Cross turned upside down
Burning empires to the ground
Aiser Legions march to war
Halocaust of ancient lore
In The Books

[III. THE BOOK OF SKULLS]

Long lost Magik of our tribes
Necromantic book of scribes
Blood from human sacrifice
Bringing life that never dies
The Book Of Skulls

The witch begat her only orn
Concieved by blackest rites
Sacrificial throats were torn
To give The Demon life
Life baptized in blood

Mankind thrown into the maze
Of a cataclysmic age
Cadavers re-animate
As The Priests Of Chaos prey
The Book Of Skulls.
--
[ not a great poem, but has some good bits.
It should be of interest to some more of us REH fans.
BTW, i have not heard the music of the band. ]
----
>> Links to our other great poetry topics are in post # 1 in here.

[Sardonikus]

Just belched this up from the bowels of my black soul:

Subsumption, by James W. McNew

Beneath the Sea of Platitudes -
A thousand fathoms down,
The scavengers are seeking
'Midst the ruin, rot, and reeking
Of the wreckage crumbling, creaking,
Where the weak-willed went to drown.

You think to find some bauble there,
Imbued with Virtue's light?
Then come all false and feigning,
All cajoling and complaining!
You'll find nothing left remaining
Save a high-heaped hoard of Spite.

[Buxom Sorceress]

Just belched this up from the bowels of my black soul:

Subsumption, by James W. McNew

Beneath the Sea of Platitudes -
A thousand fathoms down,
The scavengers are seeking
'Midst the ruin, rot, and reeking
Of the wreckage crumbling, creaking,
Where the weak-willed went to drown.

You think to find some bauble there,
Imbued with Virtue's light?
Then come all false and feigning,
All cajoling and complaining!
You'll find nothing left remaining
Save a high-heaped hoard of Spite.

Great stuff.
Great rhyming.

And
"a high-heaped hoard of Spite"
is a powerful phrase that my darkside likes.

Thankyou so much.