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Weird Tales: H. P. Lovecraft


newbloodmoon

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BornHoward Phillips Lovecraft
August 20, 1890 -March 15, 1937 (aged 46)
Providence, Rhode Island, U.S.

Married to Sonia Haft Greene Lovecraft, they eventually divorced… sort of. H. P. Lovecraft had never signed the divorce papers, I haven’t been able to find out an explanation as to why (perhaps divorce was a dirty word and he didn’t wish to besmirch the Lovecraft name) but Sophie eventually went on to remarry a gentleman named Samuel Greene.

Though the most controversial of the weird tale writers for his racist views one cannot deny Lovecraft’s influence on modern horror. From Robert Bloch’s, Lumley, and even King. Yes that king, Stephan. Some of his stories have been put to film, some in name only like Daigon to more recently Color from space with Nick Cage.

 And now a poem.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.
 
Some of my favorite stories are in no particular order.
1) Dagon
2) The shadow over Innsmouth
3) Dunwich horror
4) Reanimater 
 
resources
https://www.hplhs.org/ the h.p. Lovecraft historical society
2  the h.p. Literary podcast, voluminous: the letters of h. p. Lovecraft. Two podcasts for your consideration, the first is more humorous and goes beyond h.p.l. Stories when they are finished with his library of work.

Edited by newbloodmoon

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Hammerclaw

Posted

"That is not dead which can erternal lie,

And with strange Aeons even death may die."

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Hammerclaw

Posted (edited)

The Outpost
By H. P. Lovecraft


ornatop.gif
When evening cools the yellow stream,
PixelClear.gifAnd shadows stalk the jungle’s ways,
PixelClear.gifZimbabwe’s palace flares ablaze
For a great King who fears to dream.

For he alone of all mankind
PixelClear.gifWaded the swamp that serpents shun;
PixelClear.gifAnd struggling toward the setting sun,
Came on the veldt that lies behind.

No other eyes had vented there
PixelClear.gifSince eyes were lent for human sight—
PixelClear.gifBut there, as sunset turned to night,
He found the Elder Secret’s lair.

Strange turrets rose beyond the plain,
PixelClear.gifAnd walls and bastions spread around
PixelClear.gifThe distant domes that fouled the ground
Like leprous fungi after rain.

A grudging moon writhed up to shine
PixelClear.gifPast leagues where life can have no home;
PixelClear.gifAnd paling far-off tower and dome,
Shewed each unwindowed and malign.

Then he who in his boyhood ran
PixelClear.gifThrough vine-hung ruins free of fear,
PixelClear.gifTrembled at what he saw—for here
Was no dead, ruined seat of man.

Inhuman shapes, half-seen, half-guessed,
PixelClear.gifHalf solid and half ether-spawned,
PixelClear.gifSeethed down from starless voids that yawned
In heav’n, to these blank walls of pest.

And voidward from that pest-mad zone
PixelClear.gifAmorphous hordes seethed darkly back,
PixelClear.gifTheir dim claws laden with the wrack
Of things that men have dreamed and known.

The ancient Fishers from Outside—
PixelClear.gifWere there not tales the high-priest told,
PixelClear.gifOf how they found the worlds of old,
And took what pelf their fancy spied?

Their hidden, dread-ringed outposts brood
PixelClear.gifUpon a million worlds of space;
PixelClear.gifAbhorred by every living race,
Yet scatheless in their solitude.

Sweating with fright, the watcher crept
PixelClear.gifBack to the swamp that serpents shun,
PixelClear.gifSo that he lay, by rise of sun,
Safe in the palace where he slept.

None saw him leave, or come at dawn,
PixelClear.gifNor does his flesh bear any mark
PixelClear.gifOf what he met in that curst dark—
Yet from his sleep all peace has gone.

When evening cools the yellow stream,
PixelClear.gifAnd shadows stalk the jungle’s ways,
PixelClear.gifZimbabwe’s palace flares ablaze,
For a great King who fears to dream.
Edited by Hammerclaw
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Hammerclaw

Posted (edited)

CLARK ASHTON SMITH

January 13, 1893 – August 14, 1961

Zothique

He who has trod the shadows of Zothique
And looked upon the coal-red sun oblique,
Henceforth returns to no anterior land,
But haunts a latter coast
Where cities crumble in the black sea-sand
And dead gods drink the brine.

He who has known the gardens of Zothique
Were bleed the fruits torn by the simorgh's beak,
Savors no fruit of greener hemispheres:
In arbors uttermost,
In sunset cycles of the sombering years,
He sips an amaranth wine.

He who has loved the wild girls of Zothique
Shall not come back a gentler love to seek,
Nor know the vampire's from the lover's kiss:
For him the scarlet ghost
Of Lilith from time's last necropolis
Rears amorous and malign.

He who has sailed in galleys of Zothique
And seen the looming of strange spire and peak,
Must face again the sorcerer-sent typhoon,
And take the steerer's post
On far-poured oceans by the shifted moon
Or the re-shapen Sign.
Edited by Hammerclaw
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