Robert
E. Howard: Found Poems
by
Charles Gramlich
One of my favorite Howard collections has always been
THE SOWERS OF THE THUNDER, which contains four long
stories, "The Lion of Tiberias," The Sowers of
the Thunder," "Lord of Samarcand," and
"The Shadow of the Vulture." In my opinion,
these are among the best pieces of adventure fiction ever
written. In discussing this collection, I'd like first to
call attention to the incredible power of Howard's prose
by doing a little experiment.
We all know that Howard wrote professional poetry, and
we all know that his prose was lent a vividness and glory
by poetic phrasings. To see just how strong this effect
was, I went through "The Lion of Tiberias" and
created a "found" poem using his words. All the
following words are Howard's (so I'm not putting them in
quotation marks), and all of them are in exactly the order
in which he wrote them. The only thing I did was extract
them from the story and link them together in a poetical
format. This often meant breaking up the paragraph
structure and sometimes leaving out a word or two from a
sentence.
I started out using the standard three dots (...) to
indicate where words were removed from a sentence, but
this quickly became awkward and broke up the poem's flow.
I finally just took the words out. Through careful
reading, I tried to retain the storyline. This made the
poem very long, but interesting I think. Hope you enjoy.
THE LION OF TIBERIAS
(A Found
Poem)
Steel
clad bodies lay strewn
like the drift of a storm
survivors panting in flight
toward the white walls.
Behind them the mailed hawks
the glittering dream ended in
a storm of blood and steel.
Yet in the littered field the fight
still swirled and eddied.
Red mane, black locks, dusty gray mail
scarred face, blue eyes cold and hard.
But one kindly act, one deed of mercy
he now faced a host.
John Norwald beat back the onslaught.
A roaring voice; they fell back.
A tall horseman rode through them
the Lion of Tiberias.
Grip of hands on rein and swordhilt
merciless grin of hunting panther.
Lay your weapons, no sword shall touch.
I trust him not, I'll take him to hell.
Nay, answered Achmet. We have done all
men might do.
And Norwald laid down his broadsword.
Vultures shall pluck your bones tonight.
You shall not escape.
I break no oath. A whip is not a sword.
The deed was done, the mangled horror
Prince Achmet cast on a heap of dead.
Shadow of vulture wings in the sunset.
In a year, or ten years, or twenty
I will come again to pay this debt.
Sun setting in crimson.
Zenghi the Syrian on a black stallion
cloak flowing from mailed shoulders
John Norwald, stumbling along in chains.
Zenghi on his black stallion swept the
land like a storm.
The years passed.
Two figures held the attention
tall, hard-limbed, broad-shouldered.
One clean-shaven, red-gold hair.
Opposite. Drab by comparison
dusty chain-mail, worn sword-hilt.
A short beard masked strong lines.
Roger d'Ibelin. Miles du Courcey.
The man known as d'Ibelin
travelling under false pretenses
beast snarl from masquerader's lips.
Throwing all his frame behind his
sword arm.
du Courcey too seasoned a fighter
he brought his steed round.
Horses reared while swords hissed.
Broadsword shattered a helmet
splintered skull within.
Riderless horse galloped away.
The Moslem host encamped
Zenghi playing at chess.
Let him be brought before me.
Miles du Courcey, what have you done
with the messenger
dead among the trees on Antioch road?
Zenghi turned to the Frank.
I would show you one you know of old.
Ellen! My God! Alive!
Miles! She echoed his cry.
Sir Miles, said Zenghi
when I tear you between wild horses
she shall accompany on pointed stake.
To me, Ellen! snapped the Norman
trying to shield her with his own body.
Shoulder to shoulder they raced
then struck the open desert and heard
clamor die out behind them.
Drawbridge lowered, not a moment
too soon
arrows in a shower about them.
Now began the siege.
Zenghi set to his task with the
skill of long practice.
The rams crunched, the arrows sang.
The steel tides surged on
until only a skeleton force held
the crumbling walls.
A bowshot from the beleaguered walls
Zenghi played chess.
I knew my captives would ride hither.
Du Courcey will never bear news.
Is there no mercy in your soul, Zenghi?
A man must smite or be smitten.
Men are wolves, and I the strongest
of the pack.
Who has stood against me?
In the castle, Sir Miles du Courcey.
The walls are crumbling. Shall we not
fire the castle, cut the throats
of our women and children
go forth to die like men in the dawn?
Sir Miles shook his head.
We will hold the walls another day.
From dreams of imperial pageantry
Zenghi again awoke.
Without all was silence.
The prince lay in the midst of ten
thousand armed men; yet felt suddenly
apart and alone
the last man on a dead world.
Then he saw that he was not alone.
Looking down on him a strange and
alien figure
whose rags did not hide gaunt limbs.
Zenghi stared appalled.
There was no soft flesh to mask the
raw savagery.
White hair hung about the shoulders.
His terrible arms were folded.
I am the ghost, dead twenty years.
Have you forgotten my promise?
I am John Norwald.
Twenty-three years ago I doomed him
to the rower's bench.
What galley slave could live so long?
I lived. Where others died like flies.
The lash that scarred my back could not
kill me.
Nor storm, nor pestilence, nor battle.
The years have been long, Zenghi.
Yet I lived.
It was not the ripping lash that
roused me to life
but the hate that would not let me die.
I lost my youth, my hope, my manhood,
my soul, my faith and God.
But my hate burned on.
For the first time in his life
Zenghi knew fear.
Ho, guards. To me.
Call louder, Zenghi, said Norwald.
They hear thee not.
Thou art delivered into my hand.
Zenghi leaped from his cushions,
whipping out a dagger.
Like a great gaunt tiger
the Englishman was upon him
right hand locked on his throat.
Zenghi tore at the wrist; the dagger
fell from his nerveless hand.
Instantly Norwald caught it up.
Zenghi saw a face, raw, torn and
bleeding.
Then the dagger found his heart
The
haggard defenders on the walls
lifting notched blades gaped
as they saw confusion in the camp
and at last the scattering over the
plain.
Miles du Courcey stood with Ellen
staring down on silent, abandoned camp
where deserted tent flapped idly
above the blood-stained body.
The Lion of Tiberias
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COMMENTS
I'm not terribly happy with the results here. All the
words and phrases are great, of course, but my execution
of the poem leaves a little to be desired. However, the
fact of my failure to achieve the kind of strong poem that
I wanted tells us something (and not just that I'm a poor
poet).
Poetry and prose have different rules, and it isn't
easy to translate good poetry into good prose, and vice
versa. Some people, who are primarily poets, produce prose
that is easy to translate into a poem. I've found that
some of my own short horror stories translate well (though
whether they're good or not remains to be decided). This
is because they are actually poems in prose format.
On the other hand, I've usually found that the work of
a writer who works primarily, or exclusively, in prose is
very difficult to turn into poetry. In other words, it's
easier for a poet to write prose than it is for a prose
writer to write poetry.
Now, what does this have to do with Howard? Well,
Howard was adept at both poetry and prose. And he used his
skill at poetry to add depth or "fill" to his
prose stories. Even my rather poor translation of
"The Lion of Tiberias" illustrates this. The
poetical underpinnings of the tale are strong.
However, Howard was also a professional prose writer,
and many of the difficulties that I had in changing story
to poem arises from REH's strength as a storyteller. He
clearly knew the difference between the rules of poems and
prose. This is not true of many poets who turn to prose,
perhaps because it pays better. Their prose work is
essentially poetry cast into a different format. It still
follows the rules of poetry, though, which often means
that it sacrifices some meaning for the sound and visual
effect of a phrase.
This is not good or bad. It just is. Poetry written as
prose is still readable, as long as it is kept short, and
especially if it is written in a surrealistic style. Prose
written as poetry is usually stupid. Robert E. Howard was
the writerly equivalent of ambidextrous. He was able to
write equally well in both prose and poetry. And he did
not merely "translate" from one to the other. He
recast his work to match the form of expression he wanted
to use. This is not as easy as it might seem. And it is
certainly not easy to produce, as REH produced, works of
extremely high quality in both forms.
Let's blaze those six-guns in salute.
For the ending to this piece on Howard's poetry and
prose, I went through "The Sowers of the
Thunder" and extracted phrasings to create several
found poems in their own right. These are in the same
order as the story, but not selected to convey the same
meaning as the story. The only words that I added were the
titles. Hope you enjoy.
MAD MEN AND TIGERS
Dangerous suppleness of a
panther
Cold as blue ice
Kite-shaped shield
Like a flash of summer lightning
Like the purr of a hunting tiger
He is mad; none molests him |
WILES OF A WOMAN
Many broken kings, drifting among
the debris
Among the ruins of all the unborn
My vassals lie cold and still
Treachery, and the wiles of a woman
coiled about my soul |
DRINKING TALES
Bring Kumiss, fermented mare's milk
In leathern skins, bound and sealed
Illegal drink
To tempt the sated palates
Then goblet for goblet with Haroun
Cahal quaffed
And shouted over spicy tales
Love songs that sighed
Whisper of palm leaves and silken
veils
The drum of hoofs and clashing of
swords |
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