Dark Poetry
- Thread starter bendk
- Start date
Patrick G.P
Chymist
Beacuse of the recent solar eclipse, I thought this would be fitting:
Darkness
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Darkness
By Lord Byron (George Gordon)
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
ToALonelyPeace
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Desolate
I strain my worn out sight across the sea,
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand,
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land,
Of the wide deep and the forsaken lea:
Ah! Love, return, ah! Love, come back to me!-
As well these ebbing waves I might command,
To turn and kiss the moist deserted sand!
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.
The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet,
Oh! blest for me, if it were now my lot,
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife
Die out like yon tide’s faint receding beat:
If he forgot so easily in life,
I may in death forget that he forgot.
--Philip Bourke Marston.
I strain my worn out sight across the sea,
I hear the wan waves sobbing on the strand,
My eyes grow weary of the sea and land,
Of the wide deep and the forsaken lea:
Ah! Love, return, ah! Love, come back to me!-
As well these ebbing waves I might command,
To turn and kiss the moist deserted sand!
The joy that was, is not, and cannot be.
The salt shore, furrowed by the foam, smells sweet,
Oh! blest for me, if it were now my lot,
To make this shore my rest, and hear all strife
Die out like yon tide’s faint receding beat:
If he forgot so easily in life,
I may in death forget that he forgot.
--Philip Bourke Marston.
bendk
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S.T. Joshi mentioned this poem in a recent blog post referring to it as 'Sterling’s great atheistic sonnet'. He is putting it to music.
To Science
By George Sterling
And if thou slay Him, shall the ghost not rise?
Yea! if thou conquer Him thine enemy,
His specter from the dark shall visit thee—
Invincible, necessitous and wise.
The tyrant and mirage of human eyes,
Exhaled upon the spirit's darkened sea,
Shares He thy moment of eternity,
Thy truth confronted ever with His lies.
Thy banners gleam a little, and are furled;
Against thy turrets surge His phantom tow'rs;
Drugged with His opiates the nations nod,
Refusing still the beauty of thine hours;
And fragile is thy tenure of this world
Still haunted by the monstrous ghost of God.
To Science
By George Sterling
And if thou slay Him, shall the ghost not rise?
Yea! if thou conquer Him thine enemy,
His specter from the dark shall visit thee—
Invincible, necessitous and wise.
The tyrant and mirage of human eyes,
Exhaled upon the spirit's darkened sea,
Shares He thy moment of eternity,
Thy truth confronted ever with His lies.
Thy banners gleam a little, and are furled;
Against thy turrets surge His phantom tow'rs;
Drugged with His opiates the nations nod,
Refusing still the beauty of thine hours;
And fragile is thy tenure of this world
Still haunted by the monstrous ghost of God.
Acutely decayed
Grimscribe
THE VALLEY OF THE BLACK PIG by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather; unknown spears
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,
And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
"The Valley of the Black Pig" is reprinted from The Wind Among the Reeds. W.B. Yeats. London: Elkin Mathews, 1899.
The dews drop slowly and dreams gather; unknown spears
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes,
And then the clash of fallen horsemen and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew,
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you,
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.
"The Valley of the Black Pig" is reprinted from The Wind Among the Reeds. W.B. Yeats. London: Elkin Mathews, 1899.
Gnosticangel
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DIALOGUE
Clark Ashton Smith
One said: "I have seen, from cliffs of doom,
The seven hells flame up in flower
Like a million upas trees that tower,
Massing their realms of poisonous bloom.
I have gone down where dragons writhe,
Mating within the nadir slime;
I have caressed in some mad clime
The Gorgon's ringlets, long and lithe."
Another answered: "I have known
The undated hour of agony
When sightless terror leers and crawls
Out of mere soil and simple stone;
When horror seeps from out four walls
And trickles from the unclouded sky.
Clark Ashton Smith
One said: "I have seen, from cliffs of doom,
The seven hells flame up in flower
Like a million upas trees that tower,
Massing their realms of poisonous bloom.
I have gone down where dragons writhe,
Mating within the nadir slime;
I have caressed in some mad clime
The Gorgon's ringlets, long and lithe."
Another answered: "I have known
The undated hour of agony
When sightless terror leers and crawls
Out of mere soil and simple stone;
When horror seeps from out four walls
And trickles from the unclouded sky.
ToALonelyPeace
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Gnosticangel
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Saw this listed on Supernatural Tales Blog this morning, so my thanks to them for the reminder.
T.S. Eliot Recites "The Hollow Men"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAWaZqDf-VE
T.S. Eliot Recites "The Hollow Men"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAWaZqDf-VE
Gnosticangel
Grimscribe
"The Corpse Who Went for a Walk"
Thomas Wiloch
A corpse decided to go for a walk. The coffin is so cramped and stuffy, after all. He needs to stretch his legs, get some air. He strolls from the cemetery to a nearby store.
"What can I do for you?" says the store owner.
"I'd like some air freshener," says the corpse, "and a nice soft pillow, and maybe a couple of magazines."
The store owner frowns. "I don't mean to be insulting," he says, "but can you pay for all that? I mean, a man in your situation and all."
"Well, I have no money," the corpse admits. "But I could tell you the secrets of the grave, tear the veils from the mysteries of death, reveal to you the dark splendors of the afterlife."
The store owner sighs. "Fine, fine," he mutters. "So what you're saying is you have no cash."
- from "Screaming In Code"
Thomas Wiloch
A corpse decided to go for a walk. The coffin is so cramped and stuffy, after all. He needs to stretch his legs, get some air. He strolls from the cemetery to a nearby store.
"What can I do for you?" says the store owner.
"I'd like some air freshener," says the corpse, "and a nice soft pillow, and maybe a couple of magazines."
The store owner frowns. "I don't mean to be insulting," he says, "but can you pay for all that? I mean, a man in your situation and all."
"Well, I have no money," the corpse admits. "But I could tell you the secrets of the grave, tear the veils from the mysteries of death, reveal to you the dark splendors of the afterlife."
The store owner sighs. "Fine, fine," he mutters. "So what you're saying is you have no cash."
- from "Screaming In Code"
Gnosticangel
Grimscribe
Passage from "Helian," by Georg Trakl
The steps of madness in black chambers,
The shadows of the aged beneath the open door,
When Helian's soul beholds itself in the rosy mirror,
And snow and leprosy drop from his brow.
Along the walls the stars are extinguished,
And the white shapes of light.
The bones of the graves rise up from the carpet,
The silence of the broken crosses on the hill,
The sweetness of incense in the crimson nightwind.
O you shattered eyes in the black mouths,
As the grandchild alone in gentle derangement
Contemplates the darker end,
Above him the silent god lowers his blue eyelids.
From "Song of the Departed: Selected Poems of Georg Trakl," trans. by Robert Firmage
The steps of madness in black chambers,
The shadows of the aged beneath the open door,
When Helian's soul beholds itself in the rosy mirror,
And snow and leprosy drop from his brow.
Along the walls the stars are extinguished,
And the white shapes of light.
The bones of the graves rise up from the carpet,
The silence of the broken crosses on the hill,
The sweetness of incense in the crimson nightwind.
O you shattered eyes in the black mouths,
As the grandchild alone in gentle derangement
Contemplates the darker end,
Above him the silent god lowers his blue eyelids.
From "Song of the Departed: Selected Poems of Georg Trakl," trans. by Robert Firmage
bendk
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Rizpah
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
https://americanliterature.com/author/alfred-lord-tennyson/poem/rizpah
Ramsey Campbell recommended this poem at the below link. The link was kindly provided by TLO member, Masonwire.
The Quietus | Features | Baker's Dozen | The Count Of 13: Ramsey Campbell's Weird Selection
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
https://americanliterature.com/author/alfred-lord-tennyson/poem/rizpah
Ramsey Campbell recommended this poem at the below link. The link was kindly provided by TLO member, Masonwire.
The Quietus | Features | Baker's Dozen | The Count Of 13: Ramsey Campbell's Weird Selection
Apollonius
Acolyte
That was superb, humorously dark; enjoyed it very much!
Gnosticangel
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"Hyperion to Bellarmin," Friedrich Holderlin
I have nothing of which I may say that it is mine.
Distant and dead are my loved ones, and no voice brings me news of them anymore.
My business on earth is over. I set to work full of determination, I gave my blood to it, and made the world not a penny richer.
Unknown and alone, I have returned to wander through my native country, which lies about me like a vast graveyard; and perhaps what awaits me is the knife of the hunter who preserves us Greeks for his sport even as he does the wild beasts of the forests.
I have nothing of which I may say that it is mine.
Distant and dead are my loved ones, and no voice brings me news of them anymore.
My business on earth is over. I set to work full of determination, I gave my blood to it, and made the world not a penny richer.
Unknown and alone, I have returned to wander through my native country, which lies about me like a vast graveyard; and perhaps what awaits me is the knife of the hunter who preserves us Greeks for his sport even as he does the wild beasts of the forests.
bendk
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An interesting experiment in poetry that I found on the net:
Please read all the way to the END.
Ugly / Beauty
I am very ugly
so don’t try to convince me that
I’m a very beautiful person
because at the end of the day
I hate myself in every single way
And I’m not going to lie to myself by saying
There’s Beauty inside of me that matters
So rest assured I will always remind myself
That I am a worthless, terrible person
And nothing you say will make me believe
I still deserve love
Because no matter what
I am not good enough to be loved
And I am in no position to believe that
Beauty does exist Within Me
Because whenever I look in the mirror I always think
Am I as ugly as people say?
NOW, read from the bottom to the top!
Please read all the way to the END.
Ugly / Beauty
I am very ugly
so don’t try to convince me that
I’m a very beautiful person
because at the end of the day
I hate myself in every single way
And I’m not going to lie to myself by saying
There’s Beauty inside of me that matters
So rest assured I will always remind myself
That I am a worthless, terrible person
And nothing you say will make me believe
I still deserve love
Because no matter what
I am not good enough to be loved
And I am in no position to believe that
Beauty does exist Within Me
Because whenever I look in the mirror I always think
Am I as ugly as people say?
NOW, read from the bottom to the top!
Knygathin
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I am not familiar with Robert Lowell, but surely that is no way to leave your books. Then again, maybe it is, to get things done.
But really, I was looking for comments on George Sterling's poetry. ... And his essays (Hippocampus Press is about to release a collection of these). How was his poetry different from Clark Ashton Smith's? I understand Smith adored him, but he also needed a role model and mentor. Is Sterling worth bothering with? Was he mediocre? Or a genius? It seems he bungled much of his time on pretentious laurel posturing and bohemia California partying. I rarely hear him mentioned among cosmic and weird fiction aficiandos. Not sure even Lovecraft ever commented on Sterling in his letters.
Gnosticangel
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George Sterling's "A Wine of Wizardry" is one of his most famous poems. It's easy to see how that influenced CA Smith's "The Hashish Eater."
https://theotherpages.org/poems/part2/sterling02.html
Also his "Testimony of the Suns" is highly regarded, with a cosmic (non-horror) perspective.
The Testimony of the Suns - George Sterling - My poetic side
https://theotherpages.org/poems/part2/sterling02.html
Also his "Testimony of the Suns" is highly regarded, with a cosmic (non-horror) perspective.
The Testimony of the Suns - George Sterling - My poetic side