tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11077580106398477492024-03-13T09:40:56.324-07:00The Scant Gold I Bring A personal journey through the poetry corpus of the late Clark Ashton Smith.Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.comBlogger802125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-15966792214965055192024-01-04T06:43:00.000-08:002024-01-04T06:43:47.849-08:00Ballad of a Lost Soul<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This unpublished poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) exists as a manuscript in the John Hay Library at Brown University, and has a notation of "unfinished" written on the bottom of the manuscript.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Unseen, without a sound, were closed<br /><span> The irremeable doors of clay;<br /></span><span>Debarred from earth, to space exposed<br /></span><span><span> The spirit took her outward way.</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span>She rose, at first on cautious wings--</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span> New to the freedom of the sky,</span><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span>E'en a wind, from wanderings </span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span> I</span>n devious forests thick and high</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span>Coming into the day at last</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span> But soon, upon ascended heights,</span><br /></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span>A sense of barriers overpassed </span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span>Came on her, and she met the vast </span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span><span> S</span>wiftening unto its wider flights.</span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span>To her, with backward gaze, </span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span><span> The earth was shaken from its place,</span><br /></span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span><span>And flung </span></span></span></span></span></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>returnless, unredeemed,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span> In gulfs that closed without a trace;</span><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span>Where the precipitated moon </span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span> A glittering pebble followed swift;</span><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span>And shot the sun, that dwindled soon--</span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span> A plummet in an endless rift.</span><br /></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span>"As to the vortices of dread</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span> That wast beyond the nether bars</span><br /></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span>They fell," s</span></span></span></span></i></span><i style="font-family: verdana;">aid she, above her head--</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: verdana;"><span> A night that bristled with its stars.</span><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="font-family: verdana;"><span><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Methinks that yonder suns, in rows</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> Serried, innumerable, shine</span><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span>As the angels where disclose</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span> The portals of the place divine."</span><br /></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span>Tow'rd eyries of the clustered spheres--</span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span> Their vantages remotely seen--</span><br /></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span>She soared apace, nor thought to face </span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span> The gulfs that drave between:</span><br /></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span>By night resistless pushed apart,</span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><span> The systems, on each side</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><span>Divided swift, and through the rift </span></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> She saw the blackness wide </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><span><span>Field of ulterior suns, that stood</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> In far-assembled pride.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Although much of the diction in this poem feels strained, it's a fascinating idea to trace the path of a spirit emerging after the death of a physical being in a journey to "The portals of the place divine."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't know when CAS wrote this poem, but it certainly feels like a early effort akin to the work that led up to his first published volume of poetry (<i>The Star-Treader and Other Poems</i>). In reading "Ballad of a Lost Soul", I can't help but recall CAS' later epic poem "<a href="https://www.desertdweller.net/2019/12/the-hashish-eater-or-apocalypse-of-evil.html">The Hashish Eater, or The Apocalypse of Evil</a>", which traces a similar journey of cosmic proportions, although following a much less conventional course!</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-40362368951629151102024-01-02T05:57:00.000-08:002024-01-02T05:57:41.702-08:00An end, but not The End<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I started this blog almost six years ago. I have not been able to contribute to it every day, so there have been some gaps between posts, but with my last post previous to this one I reached something of a milestone: I've now read through the entire corpus of Clark Ashton Smith's published and completed poetry, as documented in </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The Complete Poetry and Translations of Clark Ashton Smith</i> (in three volumes) from Hippocampus Press.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The same three volumes contain two more sub-collections of CAS' poetry: the "Fragments and Untitled Poems", and an entire volume of his translations into English of verse from other poets (such as Charles Baudelaire). I intend to continue reading through (and blogging about) the first of those groupings. I am not yet sure about the translations, since those are not wholely the work of CAS, but I'll tackle that when I get there!</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-87824804256438535522023-12-31T07:10:00.000-08:002023-12-31T07:10:53.839-08:00Cycles<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmET7MEcJB1JzALlhYcGxmddC5boKfT4CgLsEzQTG8ZpKAnpeql_KSTXt6wKbS_6VeeIseng9Qs-f0gKvxnV9A-V6wPIf-Hq_Mm3ufyxBdEBws_CGmjIM12lpFJNHhhr9ScyXTPwP8sW63lzkwfkaDIX4PB-kwuVYDPAKVk666Xw03a6tNQOaBIxnqOOA/s1600/the_sorcerer_s_tower_by_grivetart-d6i333v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="1600" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjmET7MEcJB1JzALlhYcGxmddC5boKfT4CgLsEzQTG8ZpKAnpeql_KSTXt6wKbS_6VeeIseng9Qs-f0gKvxnV9A-V6wPIf-Hq_Mm3ufyxBdEBws_CGmjIM12lpFJNHhhr9ScyXTPwP8sW63lzkwfkaDIX4PB-kwuVYDPAKVk666Xw03a6tNQOaBIxnqOOA/w562-h314/the_sorcerer_s_tower_by_grivetart-d6i333v.jpg" width="562" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Cycles" at The Eldritch Dark:</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/109/cycles"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/109/cycles</span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This was the last poem that Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) wrote before his death in August 1961. It was commissioned by Donald Sidney-Fryer for his CAS bibliography (<i>Emperor of Dreams</i>), although oddly enough it did not appear in that volume when it was published in 1977.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">In his essay "A Memoir of Timeus Gaylord", Sidney-Fryer commented on the origin of this poem:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><blockquote>I...asked him (CAS) to write for the bibliography a sonnet in alexandrines which would symbolically comment on the canon of his writings.</blockquote></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">In that vein, it's worth noting that the first three words of this poem match the title of an earlier poem by CAS, which I read a few years ago:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://www.desertdweller.net/2020/12/the-sorcerer-departs.html">https://www.desertdweller.net/2020/12/the-sorcerer-departs.html</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Back then, I read "The Sorcerer Departs" as something of a prophecy, wherein the artist speculated on the future prospects of his creations, those "cryptic runes that shall / Outblast the pestilence, outgnaw the worm". "Cycles" is clearly thematically related to the earlier poem, but enriched with the notion of endless deaths and rebirths. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">If indeed CAS was responding to </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sidney-Fryer's request that he "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">comment on the canon of his writings", then </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Cycles" speaks to CAS' confidence that "My </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">volumes and my philtres shall abide", but furthermore that his words would continue to resonate with readers, "to blaze with blinding glory the bored hours". Not a bad way to close out a long and amazing poetic career.</span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-14486677147270305342023-12-30T06:21:00.000-08:002023-12-30T06:21:41.756-08:00H.P.L.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKB4UgADOfL03Zy_7zJr6YFhLwT0fDiu6MrmbEQlpyzjZlO3yC69_SW5HNxBfnnMlVzB572m-00UBmAU1v09694pGW77Wof8Y59Ac0QLyxkpyKcZMhCroDiOn7FG5yO6NEvEsTj-6B4h_qBDLfw7dNpRXdv62_qIndWwBY2Y3KqFNjnHZW-5-oi7xgcR7/s1771/qmdmlxd8ldn21.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1771" data-original-width="1181" height="499" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMKB4UgADOfL03Zy_7zJr6YFhLwT0fDiu6MrmbEQlpyzjZlO3yC69_SW5HNxBfnnMlVzB572m-00UBmAU1v09694pGW77Wof8Y59Ac0QLyxkpyKcZMhCroDiOn7FG5yO6NEvEsTj-6B4h_qBDLfw7dNpRXdv62_qIndWwBY2Y3KqFNjnHZW-5-oi7xgcR7/w332-h499/qmdmlxd8ldn21.png" width="332" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "H.P.L." at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/222/h.p.l."><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/222/h.p.l.</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is the second poem that Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) wrote about H.P. Lovecraft, a peer whom he never met in person. I wrote about the first of these poems ("To Howard Phillips Lovecraft") several years ago:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://www.desertdweller.net/2020/09/to-howard-phillips-lovecraft.html">https://www.desertdweller.net/2020/09/to-howard-phillips-lovecraft.html</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Twenty-two years (from 1937 to 1959) separated the writing of these two works, and yet the same theme can be found in both of the them. In the first poem, CAS enshrined Lovecraft's words like so: "And from the spirit's page thy runes can never pass."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the later poem ("H.P.L."), CAS expresses a similar sentiment, but with an exalted technique that befits the cosmic imagination of its subject:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Some echo of his voice, some vanished word<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Follows the light with equal speed, and spans<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The star-set limits of the universe,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Returning and returning, to be heard<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">When all the present worlds and spheres disperse,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">In other Spicas, other Aldebarans.</span></i></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What writer could wish for a greater legacy than to create work that "spans / The star-set limits of the universe"? Almost ninety years after his death, Lovecraft's work continues to have a major impact on contemporary culture, so one can't help but wonder if CAS' prognostications may well turn out to be correct.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-38558599206792157062023-12-29T06:01:00.000-08:002023-12-29T06:01:34.818-08:00High Surf<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGXB6HXYFc7qGTmyvwU-ynzy1xBazY_2U2KDFIeJSfGQdBWg-oTFdKGFjMaEw1140oO_-ip2kpdL2AE8StZhTjHgZi35JrmD9Zu-nhasmvPHxiG81AlSIAPXn_OH67YO1K1qX_AthMpIzYbi8sDUGXKWuOFq2ooQAWrdaW63QepmhpNZJrHhR3NntHYPF/s900/high-surf-in-california-cliff-wassmann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="900" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGXB6HXYFc7qGTmyvwU-ynzy1xBazY_2U2KDFIeJSfGQdBWg-oTFdKGFjMaEw1140oO_-ip2kpdL2AE8StZhTjHgZi35JrmD9Zu-nhasmvPHxiG81AlSIAPXn_OH67YO1K1qX_AthMpIzYbi8sDUGXKWuOFq2ooQAWrdaW63QepmhpNZJrHhR3NntHYPF/w568-h262/high-surf-in-california-cliff-wassmann.jpg" width="568" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "High Surf" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/235/high-surf"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/235/high-surf</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are quite a few typos in the text of this poem at The Eldritch Dark, so here's a corrected version:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Loud as the trump that made the mortised walls<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of Jericho to tremble and lean and sway,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The voice of ocean sweeps this granite verge.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The cormorants today,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Back-diving through the falling walls of surge,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Float not too near the rocks;<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">And smoky, white haired phantoms ride the long-spined rollers<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Curving across the bay<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">From gulfs that round Cipango, arc Cathay.</span></i> </div></blockquote><blockquote><div><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">For me,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Who stand enchanted and exalt,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Seized up into a short eternity,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">No anger and no sorrow that men feign<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Informs the risen main:<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I hear alone the impassible roar<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of years and centuries and cycles rolling<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Under that solar and galactic vault,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Over the cliffs and cities, over the mountains<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">From shore to crumbled shore.</span></i></div><p><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p></blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Cipango" is an archaic name from the age of Marco Polo, associated with modern-day Japan (</span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 34); color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">日本)</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As an ode to the vast powers of nature, "High Surf" soars with all of the huge scope of Clark Ashton Smith's (CAS) imagination. The speaker's encounter with the palpable energy of ocean waves meeting the immovable "granite verge" at land's end blooms into a broader vision of "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">centuries and cycles rolling / Under that solar and galactic vault". It's a beautiful piece of poetic inspiration; further evidence that CAS was truly possessed of the spirit of the muse.</span></p><blockquote><p></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-13807412152757588712023-12-28T07:31:00.000-08:002023-12-28T07:31:32.207-08:00Tired Gardener<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWia7HXbKxYaRB3pONQwKAaUKojUTo4Nc0envy_Kh3iiJqqWD2KATl8uztDYdaIHtRKIeDt4_nENyRqBEV3fVmRizpChLm1dAo-rKWxhn-CWK-gn4C5sJDdC-0YhNKSuImZ5R3xPvqHynHv8YJ0BWZj4M-s77CKAbIbR_jqYv9sfMSeb5HglATiIObZtp/s1500/41e1d959a5e16adef3b9667c68593fed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1044" height="487" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWia7HXbKxYaRB3pONQwKAaUKojUTo4Nc0envy_Kh3iiJqqWD2KATl8uztDYdaIHtRKIeDt4_nENyRqBEV3fVmRizpChLm1dAo-rKWxhn-CWK-gn4C5sJDdC-0YhNKSuImZ5R3xPvqHynHv8YJ0BWZj4M-s77CKAbIbR_jqYv9sfMSeb5HglATiIObZtp/w339-h487/41e1d959a5e16adef3b9667c68593fed.jpg" width="339" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Tired Gardener" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/582/tired-gardener">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/582/tired-gardener</a></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In many ways, this poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) is simply a richer expression of the same ideas found in "Lawn-Mower", which I read yesterday. In that work, CAS used the mythological figure of Procrustes to imagine a manicured lawn as a metaphor for humanity's fumbling attempts to create order out of the "chaos" of the natural world. "Tired Gardener" expands significantly on the same theme, although with quite a bit more poetic flair.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The grotesque and luxuriant foliage of the first stanza seemingly exists "only to prove the old Mammonian power". In spite of all that floral beauty, the sole object of tending those showy blooms is a pretentious exhibition of mankind's inflated self-conception. But the tired gardener knows all too well "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">how soon / </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the lovely weeds half-disinherited / </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">return".</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And so in the second stanza, the speaker encourages the embrace of un-manipulated natural splendor, and CAS delivers incredible images such as "willows following the dark sunken channel / of marsh-lost waters toward the sea." </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But this is CAS, the poet with the vivid (and sometimes vicious) imagination, and he takes it one step further, as the "last empire" of humanity becomes little more than "a fat mandragora / uprooted by its rebel gardeners." The poet's preference for unspoiled natural landscapes extends to a vision of the downfall of Mammon and the coarse civilizations that gave birth to it, envisioning a future in which the artifacts of those expired human realms surrender to encroachments of that which they had attempted to suppress.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-76508173548936517762023-12-27T07:19:00.000-08:002023-12-27T07:19:47.633-08:00Lawn-Mower<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcSYxi47LWYk3_doWe_jm4p47oIEvww7jfv_isXoG8furMp8WQj9jDxGCCD7IqStSjmmC99cxY6k5UxT3hE8C8cPw5gbBFDQec-xJ1C4nLpj4eZBg7sCxVZVROUJJFWuZZAsolGppr97ystUTUWy9jm0ayj11-iPkgRuSklrTiQfxouRRRV0HGiICd4pa/s1920/RWdaNhz84pKs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1105" data-original-width="1920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcSYxi47LWYk3_doWe_jm4p47oIEvww7jfv_isXoG8furMp8WQj9jDxGCCD7IqStSjmmC99cxY6k5UxT3hE8C8cPw5gbBFDQec-xJ1C4nLpj4eZBg7sCxVZVROUJJFWuZZAsolGppr97ystUTUWy9jm0ayj11-iPkgRuSklrTiQfxouRRRV0HGiICd4pa/w556-h320/RWdaNhz84pKs.jpg" width="556" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Lawn-Mower" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/290/lawn-mower"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/290/lawn-mower</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) references Procrustes, the villain from Greek mythology who, as Wikipedia notes, "attacked people by stretching them or cutting off their legs, so as to force them to fit the size of an iron bed."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">CAS worked informally as a gardener after his 1954 marriage and move to Pacific Grove, California. It could not have been an easy occupation at his age (early sixties) and this poem, slight as it is, reflects a broader dissatisfaction with human civilization and its preference for compliance and obedience. The obvious metaphor of the cut grass may not be highly original, but it communicates the poet's ideas perfectly.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-89374755124482471292023-12-22T06:41:00.000-08:002023-12-22T06:41:23.707-08:00The Centaur<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsuc_FYywPkp29AKnSOzKxMW_czlz-2f5accjGlgs0T0cs2bNYHAy6DnX7e_m524b8ISxs58EMSlYpyMebFuWfMBSGV-PF3uEZkFtSGZnF80GMH6P7_Zids7QojH2h44Q7iCApB8lJJk_QN7HQqw2TaHvF-13etFKB0k9MAZFeApB5mP_H6OlP0aexiUM/s1920/076d8f573b2e1fcc4847fac93e3e2705.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1521" data-original-width="1920" height="439" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtsuc_FYywPkp29AKnSOzKxMW_czlz-2f5accjGlgs0T0cs2bNYHAy6DnX7e_m524b8ISxs58EMSlYpyMebFuWfMBSGV-PF3uEZkFtSGZnF80GMH6P7_Zids7QojH2h44Q7iCApB8lJJk_QN7HQqw2TaHvF-13etFKB0k9MAZFeApB5mP_H6OlP0aexiUM/w554-h439/076d8f573b2e1fcc4847fac93e3e2705.jpg" width="554" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "The Centaur" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/570/the-centaur"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/570/the-centaur</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) provides the title source for the most comprehensive volume of CAS criticism to date: <i><a href="https://www.hippocampuspress.com/clark-ashton-smith/nonfiction/the-freedom-of-fantastic-things-selected-criticism-on-clark-ash?zenid=uai2ecgsmvhvku794l895t7ng3">The Freedom of Fantastic Things: Selected Criticism on Clark Ashton Smith</a></i> (2006), an excellent collection edited by the estimable Scott Connors.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">"The Centaur" was likely written when CAS was either in his late fifties or early sixties, and thus certainly represents the poet's mature viewpoint. In contrasting "the freedom of fantastic things" with "the infamous labyrinths of steel and mortar", CAS suggests that those of us who inhabit the latter have permanently lost our access to "the boundless realms of legend".</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or perhaps not entirely: for if the centaur can be "glimpsed by poets / Whose eyes have not been blinded", then there is still hope that some few of us may voyage to those elusive domains, at the very least on the strength of our imaginations. I can think of no more worthy life goal than to be included among that rare set.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-88929031004137172832023-12-21T07:02:00.000-08:002023-12-21T07:03:54.468-08:00Dedication: To Carol<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tISxFPeXGoDjVYUj-Zlj08euCCXvdg4qBO_Tj81umYNPJ2piko62dao3lp_ptth4rJqfCOwHggLVTPPQjoy12k17KhL5fhA2Ilq2nZu4rNi1h4hmgvf_9pmLahLLFY_woNiExVXyVxGa_1UxoRB2gs94zktfqAMvJA5scWRiMXVjSkxAvUOq_J4EaLja/s1280/Sandro%20Botticelli%20-%20The%20Birth%20of%20Venus,%201485%20(25).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1280" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tISxFPeXGoDjVYUj-Zlj08euCCXvdg4qBO_Tj81umYNPJ2piko62dao3lp_ptth4rJqfCOwHggLVTPPQjoy12k17KhL5fhA2Ilq2nZu4rNi1h4hmgvf_9pmLahLLFY_woNiExVXyVxGa_1UxoRB2gs94zktfqAMvJA5scWRiMXVjSkxAvUOq_J4EaLja/w569-h357/Sandro%20Botticelli%20-%20The%20Birth%20of%20Venus,%201485%20(25).jpg" width="569" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Dedication: To Carol" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/122/dedication-%7C-to-carol">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/122/dedication-%7C-to-carol</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The version of this poem at The Eldritch Dark is missing a couple of lines and has some typos, so here's the complete corrected poem as it appeared in </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Spells and Philtres </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">(more info on that below):</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">From this my heart, a haunted Elsinore,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I send the phantoms packing for thy sake:<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sea-wind and sun walk now the halls; I take<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Funereal wreath and fanon from my door;<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I banish demons called by mantic lore:<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The pentagrams are changed, the circles break </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">For thee in whom, by twofold thirst to slake,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Naiad and saint unite forevermore.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here the grey seas have drunk an azure day:<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The goblin-shaped miasmas of the night<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">And ghostly dragons of the mist take flight</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where the re-risen Cypris leads us on,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Unzoned, along a vervain-flowered way<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Behind the fervent footprints of the sun.</span></i></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was included as the dedication for his 1958 collection <i>Spells and Philtres</i>, the last volume of his work published by Arkham House during his lifetime. It is of course dedicated to his wife, Carol Jones Dorman, whom he married in 1954. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As an expression of the transformative power of love, "Dedication: To Carol" is quite remarkable, and suggests the emotional release that must have accompanied CAS' relationship with Carol. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">These lines describe something of a rebirth, as CAS clears away the solemnity of "Funereal wreath and fanon" to be replaced by "a vervain-flowered way / </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Behind the fervent footprints of the sun." In describing Carol as a "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">re-risen Cypris" (aka Aphrodite or Venus) he conveys upon his spouse the attributes of that ancient deity, which (according to Wikipedia) include "love, lust, beauty, pleasure, passion, procreation, and...desire, sex, fertility, prosperity, and victory." Suffice it to say that CAS thought the world of Carol, and if she was indeed his </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">re-risen Cypris", he was a very fortunate man to have met her.</span></p><p><br /></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-79711416608320760412023-12-20T05:59:00.000-08:002023-12-20T05:59:17.114-08:00Saturnian Cinema<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9wlWPTpUu1HLI1SEGAbpM86US26gQJNjIRlZU7T-0joKlMt9Ox4khttwDP8sqX5pvug95weoG8cOlhrohxXSZHMWicCfDz0M5dmzt5qKJqZ_2dJMnIB0G6jtjRa1KNTuOJTEBf7okWErq0qRaeMM_pyi2dc_dlck7CeewGCVQkmVfOyqm8QRLlVij0h6/s1033/311971.jpg.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1033" data-original-width="705" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh9wlWPTpUu1HLI1SEGAbpM86US26gQJNjIRlZU7T-0joKlMt9Ox4khttwDP8sqX5pvug95weoG8cOlhrohxXSZHMWicCfDz0M5dmzt5qKJqZ_2dJMnIB0G6jtjRa1KNTuOJTEBf7okWErq0qRaeMM_pyi2dc_dlck7CeewGCVQkmVfOyqm8QRLlVij0h6/w297-h436/311971.jpg.webp" width="297" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>Read "Saturnian Cinema" at The Eldritch Dark: </span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/482/saturnian-cinema"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/482/saturnian-cinema</span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is an another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was first published in one of Roy Squires' letterpress editions from 1976. It's a minor attempt at humorous verse, most notable for the use of a strict ABAB rhyme scheme, a basic poetic structure that CAS rarely used in his mature poems. Although it doesn't follow the formal structure of a limerick, "Saturnian Cinema" certainly has a spiritual connection to those bawdy songs!</span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-17751246652476680242023-12-19T08:24:00.000-08:002023-12-19T08:24:55.089-08:00Thebaid<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXUNw7mVwoaJ3w4MOpEr-NXHhW7J4V9xST1tf16J2uPdetcIYM_FYcpLn_K1zU1NhLicgG1n2aooOHx4ThEUSaFJQRe2CExode79xbjZHjtyCrPmpXCOTgXrCP_5tkreU_4rqWMRa-w6q811lPjNgcpdKcbws-cEpLFjyES14SU-6p9GeaPCQszvUCBZr/s1600/DSC05155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXUNw7mVwoaJ3w4MOpEr-NXHhW7J4V9xST1tf16J2uPdetcIYM_FYcpLn_K1zU1NhLicgG1n2aooOHx4ThEUSaFJQRe2CExode79xbjZHjtyCrPmpXCOTgXrCP_5tkreU_4rqWMRa-w6q811lPjNgcpdKcbws-cEpLFjyES14SU-6p9GeaPCQszvUCBZr/w571-h380/DSC05155.JPG" width="571" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Thebaid" at The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/578/thebaid"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/578/thebaid</span></a></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The version of this poem at The Eldritch Dark has a significant typo in line seven: the correct reading of that line is:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Thin out and <b>vanish</b> on the waste and vast</i></span></blockquote><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Joshi & Schultz's edition of CAS' <i>The Complete Poetry and Translations</i> mentions that this poem had a couple of alternate titles: "Arctica Deserta" and "Ultima Thule" (hence the image I've selected to accompany this post).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The theme of isolation is evident throughout this poem: isolation in such totality that it speaks even to separation from the divine:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>What shall we do<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>For whom the heavens are throneless, and there is<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>No demon prince to supplicate and serve?</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Although the solitude expressed in "Thebaid" has troubling aspects, there is also a note of freedom in these lines: "</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Where codes and cults, philosophies and gods / Thin out and vanish on the waste and vast". This landscape is remote, but it's also free of the detritus of human civilization, with its rigid social expectations</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> and fabricated deities. Thus </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Thebaid" strikes me as a wonderfully pure distillation of some of CAS' own values, given his dislike of progress and urbanity and his strong belief in the value of artistic expression and the creative life.</span></p><p><br /></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-16946496852535136742023-12-18T06:06:00.000-08:002023-12-18T06:06:43.102-08:00Isle of the Shipwrecked<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiB30lujactAZOQWqM6PGclFr8iNSPw6kRJv2PszvijxcypV7O02V9deXPQXmkUpR90GMqqhMyS0OEI2X8IYEoRpYhMUJuQbXRemUgCGu76UYKyP7i00YKnl-CeDZ6kX3_CB40zdcmP9SZv7aSUiIf-0QYbzyn3MMxD8kA5CVp2a5RkuGAF8MgpcYvMZH/s1000/shipwreck_by_hidetheinsanity_d9q4jol-fullview.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="521" data-original-width="1000" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiB30lujactAZOQWqM6PGclFr8iNSPw6kRJv2PszvijxcypV7O02V9deXPQXmkUpR90GMqqhMyS0OEI2X8IYEoRpYhMUJuQbXRemUgCGu76UYKyP7i00YKnl-CeDZ6kX3_CB40zdcmP9SZv7aSUiIf-0QYbzyn3MMxD8kA5CVp2a5RkuGAF8MgpcYvMZH/w554-h289/shipwreck_by_hidetheinsanity_d9q4jol-fullview.jpg" width="554" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem by Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was apparently first written in Spanish with the title "La Isla del náufrago". The Spanish version is available on The Eldritch Dark:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/275/la-isla-del-naufrago">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/275/la-isla-del-naufrago</a></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That version of the poem is accompanied by an English translation rendered by Ramón Cabrales.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Neither of CAS' original versions were published in his lifetime, so here's the complete English version:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Orphan of shipwreck,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am in a gardenless terrain</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>with no tilled fields, an isle</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>which the volcano has desolated,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>in part, and savages have invaded,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>holding now the greater half,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the fruits and the caught fish their booty--</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>they besiege me, and they keep me</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>afar from the bananas and the sea:</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Of this domain,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>I have only the leafless rock</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>in which will grow </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>one day the lichens with their leaves</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and with their semblances of flora</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>that all the mornings cannot wither....</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>No sail </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>whitens the dark green seas....</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>In such an islet,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>can I outlive the other islanders?</i></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is a surprisingly mundane poem to emerge from CAS' pen, reading more like an outline of a short story than a work in verse. It feels to me like some sort of exercise, as though CAS was mentoring a younger poet on the basics of the form, leading to the inclusion of odd juxtapositions, such as the speaker's lament that the "savages" are keeping him "afar from the bananas and the sea". It's no surprise that CAS did not publish "Isle of the Shipwrecked" in his lifetime, as it's little more than a curiosity.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-46420662431874198992023-12-17T07:22:00.000-08:002023-12-17T07:22:04.273-08:00Verity<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that exists only in archival manuscript (at Brown University's John Hay Library). It's not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Beneath a lover's ardent sophistries,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Perhaps you read the truth, <br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">And find, beyond the blood's impassioned pleas,</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Love that is made of tenderness and ruth,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>An exile cast upon the world's dark shore,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Something in you I seek</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Of that long-vanished motherland of yore</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Beyond the deepest sea, the bluest peak;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Some hint of fallen banners, loves foregone,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The soft and sad perfume</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Of jasmines blown, and salt of waters drawn</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>By moons no latter sun shall re-illume.</i></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I had to lookup the archaic word "ruth" as used in line four: according to the <i>Shorter Oxford English Dictionary,</i> it means "Compassion, pity; the feeling of sorrow for another."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There's a hint of something rich and splendid in "Verity", particularly in the last few lines where CAS gives us tantalizing hints such as "T</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">he soft and sad perfume / Of jasmines blown". But ultimately, this short poem doesn't really develop into anything substantial, marking it as a minor effort from CAS' overall canon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-68270314226561420532023-12-16T08:24:00.000-08:002023-12-16T08:30:35.706-08:00Delay<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZ9zdRumZ3Kk0zJ7v7Es5k1VI3ydLCwG3fnmKjA8OWj-gWJddGOchxzR9Hg2TP9kSfk8KGIRzQLLw3dqeT7ArJeFTnSzeH08HCXGhj9uJdJayHeOYJeVLT61EdgzfMtoCgS4OB3-DybN4X-3Q89KyQu521O1TA5D3AIUDddm4O33pxYUyHVbEGmzP-hGl/s1000/SnakeUnderRock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZ9zdRumZ3Kk0zJ7v7Es5k1VI3ydLCwG3fnmKjA8OWj-gWJddGOchxzR9Hg2TP9kSfk8KGIRzQLLw3dqeT7ArJeFTnSzeH08HCXGhj9uJdJayHeOYJeVLT61EdgzfMtoCgS4OB3-DybN4X-3Q89KyQu521O1TA5D3AIUDddm4O33pxYUyHVbEGmzP-hGl/w524-h392/SnakeUnderRock.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was written in September 1952, but unpublished in his lifetime. His wife (Carol Jones Dorman) noted on the manuscript that it is "Obviously a poem to Ede Hoppmoor." That name is unfamiliar to me: perhaps one of CAS' paramours?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Since this poem is not available on The Eldritch Dark, here's the complete text (note that the end of the third line was rendered illegible in a fire):</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">You have not come...and time stands over me,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">a torturer pouring</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">sluggish, slow-burning drops of molten p_____</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">which are the minutes numbered into days.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">How shall I suffer this delay? Accurst</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">the lover who must wait, and waiting, doubt:</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">until your promised coming, better it were</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">to be the satyr hibernating </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">dim months within the icy-chitoned oak,</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">the snake that sleeps beneath the winter stone.</span></i></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Those last few lines are quite striking, as the impatient speaker is transformed into a hibernating satyr and then into "the snake that sleeps beneath the winter stone." That final image is powerful and evocative, as the scaled reptile rests in anticipation of warmer days, ready to spring back to life with the ardor of a lover finally embraced.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-66937348117584393812023-12-15T06:36:00.000-08:002023-12-15T06:36:24.372-08:00Sacraments<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHtHHcZKVmNyrdgzCMkMg3QkdGFTuAx-XXCct62U5kyLNPjPJM2cv3PPfj6itM8Ji91ZIpEbIpLItLthu2OLN8eKu-_5WmWb6faeiz8UJHLit5kLCaeVjKFQozse3xr8HOmJTUMIqZVlPz6cVkJ1wzpKV3P-l704Q3ffDCbDWjO96Z2Wu0Wz5PPmTdcUH/s640/untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="640" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTHtHHcZKVmNyrdgzCMkMg3QkdGFTuAx-XXCct62U5kyLNPjPJM2cv3PPfj6itM8Ji91ZIpEbIpLItLthu2OLN8eKu-_5WmWb6faeiz8UJHLit5kLCaeVjKFQozse3xr8HOmJTUMIqZVlPz6cVkJ1wzpKV3P-l704Q3ffDCbDWjO96Z2Wu0Wz5PPmTdcUH/w574-h306/untitled.jpg" width="574" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's another poem unpublished in Clark Ashton Smith's (CAS) lifetime, and since it's not available on The Eldritch Dark, here's the complete text:</span></p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Four sacraments have we partaken,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">four sacraments unite us.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">The sacrament of mutual desire</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">when we were still half-strangers yet not strange</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">like wanderers meeting in the mist</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">drawn darkly to that common motherland</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">whose moons are borne upon Astarte's brow.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">The sacrament of joy</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">whereof your body was the tilted </span></i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>chalice,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>with breasts adored beneath the autumnal sun,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>with limbs and loins that opened</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>within the room darkened against the morning</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>or under the secret lamps that shone not streetward.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The sacrament of mirth--</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>full-bellied, earthy, Rabelaisian laughters</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>at quips and tales the bawdy gods might relish </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>after ambrosial banquets.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The sacrament of pain</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>when the strange illness bowed you, and your head,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>nestling upon my shoulder,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>slipped downward in that cryptic agony</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>I could not follow, could not fathom,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>yet must share obscurely </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>through nerves of some profound and love-wrought nexus.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Let not the sacraments be broken.</i></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></i></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Although this does not feel like a finished work, the technical structure is solid, moving through a logical sequence of the stages in a romantic relationship: initial attraction, carnal delights at the peak, joyous fun at the point of maturity, and grief in later stages.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I can't help but be most moved by the fourth stanza focusing on "The sacrament of mirth". At the end of the day, when physical aspects of a relationship have become familiar, a relationship can only survive for the long term if there is some version of "full-bellied, earthy, Rabelaisian laughters" to power through the challenging times. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't consider "Sacraments" to be one of CAS' best efforts, but its mature sensibility is well-grounded in practical reality, something of a contrast to CAS' reputation as a poet with an imagination focused on limitless extraplanetary vistas.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-12034179036710402002023-12-14T06:11:00.000-08:002023-12-14T06:11:52.831-08:00Alchemy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5ZTTlKrFg3uIIodfgP8ZENFTel83nTrWh3Ut7vHanatdCkFrbCPRL77TFE7Fsz4zoBBPoG5hDbnQZv7SbnF6We6CrY3L3109ALYQGiE9sgkYKg2nqF_VYtJ157VYlnrkRobIIcHOBnVj9uESA-ZsGwjS-8_-qRtsKeM9U-RLZHPvk6qb3GJITTpax1Sm/s2800/bunch-of-hourglasses-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2800" data-original-width="1894" height="447" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD5ZTTlKrFg3uIIodfgP8ZENFTel83nTrWh3Ut7vHanatdCkFrbCPRL77TFE7Fsz4zoBBPoG5hDbnQZv7SbnF6We6CrY3L3109ALYQGiE9sgkYKg2nqF_VYtJ157VYlnrkRobIIcHOBnVj9uESA-ZsGwjS-8_-qRtsKeM9U-RLZHPvk6qb3GJITTpax1Sm/w302-h447/bunch-of-hourglasses-2.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This is another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was never published during his lifetime, so here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">In smoke, in tapered darkness, and in mist,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Above the fateful suspect Flame </span></i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>suspended</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>My foaming loves distill. I watch, as might</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Some other and some darker Alchemist</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Observe the starry bubbles dim or splendid</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>With the immense alembic of the night.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>You have not come...and time stands over me,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>A torturer, inquisitorial, and I seem</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Supine in some colossal hour-glass, where the sands,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Burning and rasping, fall in my bared heart</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>______________________________days.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The last line is apparently obscured in the original manuscript now in the collections of the John Hay Library at Brown University.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Compared to the poem "Geometries", which I read yesterday, the metaphor at the heart of "Alchemy" is much more effective, particularly in the second stanza, where the speaker feels himself to be "Supine in some colossal hour-glass". The speaker may be something of a romantic alchemist, but his powers fail to deliver the object of his affections to him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-39636571398835544802023-12-13T06:20:00.000-08:002023-12-13T06:20:10.836-08:00Geometries<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was unpublished in his lifetime, and since it's not available on The Eldritch Dark, here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Your body and mine, upon the bed opposed,<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>presented changing forms and lines Euclidean.</i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Our heads' irregular and hairy spheres</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>pillowed in close conjunction, or describing</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>tangents, diagonals, parabolas</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>in the unresting play of love.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Your tongue's obtuse triangle</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>parting and rounded curves of our four lips,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>advancing vibrantly, and vibrantly retracting.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The spiral of my kisses </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>climbing from base to nipple gradually</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>about your full maternal breasts unspoiled,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>whose hemispheres were flattened later </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>beneath the planes of low male breasts.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Caresses of our straight-drawn fingers</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>in tender parallels,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>caresses</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>of fingers bent, half-angled and half-arced,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>of concave palms enfolding knee or buttock</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>or breast or shoulder;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and intersections multi-angular</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>of arms and legs embracing.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>And lastly</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the lingham's rigid rectilinear line</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>bisecting the yoni's cloven, soft triangle.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>All these were figures formed in time,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>figures that changed and vanished,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and passed, perhaps, into eternity,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>rejoining their Platonic absolutes.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>And afterward</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>you went away, and I was left to ponder</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>on love's geometries of straight and curved.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem is more explicitly erotic than most of what flowed from CAS' pen, and yet despite the references to the lingham (usually spelled "lingam") and the yoni, it's little more than a technical exercise in describing a carnal encounter in geometrical terms. I doubt CAS intended for this particular piece to be read by others, but nonetheless it's an interesting example of The Bard of Auburn experimenting with a new mode of poetic expression.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-64245824177430074382023-12-12T08:10:00.000-08:002023-12-12T08:10:40.173-08:00I Shall Not Greatly Grieve<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was not published in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Is it your final wish that I forget<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Your cool sweet kisses in the fervent eve?<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Upon my lips their savor lingers. Yet,</i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Though the blood chafe, I shall not greatly grieve</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>If these, the first, remain a scented score--</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Chary lest passion, like a Sirian noon,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Bring not your fruit to sweetness at the core,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>But haply mar or ripen oversoon.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>What ardors wake, what fears restrain your blood,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Where Christus wars with pagan gods? I guess</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>In you the untamed falcon's fretful mood,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The immature green orchard's earthliness.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Love has no will to harm you. I shall stand</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>With empty arms, and find a strange delight: </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The unplucked apples hanging closer at hand;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The leashless veering of the wild hawk's flight.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Apparently at least one draft of this poem survives with the alternate title "Haply I Shall Not Greatly Grieve". </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">CAS wrote many verses dedicated to love and passion, and these lines addressed to a lover wary of complete abandon to ardor read convincingly as the product of a real-life experience. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What most captures my attention is the use of avian metaphors in the last two stanzas: "the untamed falcon's fretful mood" and "The leashless veering of the wild hawk's flight." These are skillfully intertwined with images of "The immature green orchard's earthliness" and "The unplucked apples hanging closer at hand". Taken together, these are powerful suggestions of a lover who turns away from the wild call of unrestrained passion. The obviousness of the metaphors in no way detracts from their effectiveness, and demonstrates CAS' preference for clarity over obscurity in his use of literary devices.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-38882659885317044882022-03-25T18:13:00.002-07:002022-03-25T18:13:42.812-07:00Seer of the Cycles<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FkMQGC70jyqOwhI6-wjTAsBoyzqRwU5UdBEWRbfWBLAwfSdUxsU7T9BLsv-wFuNi6pQae66FhNVUfVzffPW2UX1Ln2RFqPyWojkLZff-YFjPJX5g7goJ2FgFqdPgvyRrX1aNAOUCRloGgWPZZjZlVMC3EHfY8igOUahfJiZlM66cbZeCuB3dnwI_-A/s440/md30923506046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="300" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FkMQGC70jyqOwhI6-wjTAsBoyzqRwU5UdBEWRbfWBLAwfSdUxsU7T9BLsv-wFuNi6pQae66FhNVUfVzffPW2UX1Ln2RFqPyWojkLZff-YFjPJX5g7goJ2FgFqdPgvyRrX1aNAOUCRloGgWPZZjZlVMC3EHfY8igOUahfJiZlM66cbZeCuB3dnwI_-A/w282-h413/md30923506046.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>Read "Seer of the Cycles" at The Eldritch Dark:</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/493/seer-of-the-cycles">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/493/seer-of-the-cycles</a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) provided the title for one Roy Squires' letterpress editions of CAS' poetry published in 1976. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This work has an hallucinatory quality, seemingly inspired by musings on the shapes and the movements of clouds. Beyond the vivid imagery, it has a shapeless feel to it, lacking a central motif or idea, which is quite uncommon for CAS' work in verse. It feels very much like the result of a pleasant day spent lying in the grass and watching the clouds float by overhead! </span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-58834340983877811472022-03-24T07:21:00.000-07:002022-03-24T07:21:03.993-07:00Nada<span style="font-family: verdana;">Read "Nada" at The Eldritch Dark:</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/360/nada"><span style="font-family: verdana;">http://www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/360/nada</span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The version of this poem at The Eldritch Dark has a significant typo in the fifth line; the correct wording is shown below:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>upon this sepulture <b>adust</b> and bare,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The poem's title is the Spanish word for "Nothing".</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The theme of "Nada" could be expressed as the persistence of memory, even to the point that it becomes a curse for one who would rather forget. The closing sestet is practically a complete poem all by itself, with a dark music reminiscent of the verse of Edgar Allan Poe:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Oblivion's river flows in other lands</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>than this where memory feeds a mordant spring:</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the walking dead beseech with parching hands</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the cool, far shadow of the raven's wing;</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and, leaning from the mouldered bed of lust,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>love's skeleton writes Nada in the dust.</i></span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is a deep, grim finality to these lines, an acceptance that something great has been lost. The love that was will never be again, and leaves little but bitterness and regret in its wake. Clark Ashton Smith was approaching the age of sixty when he wrote </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Nada", and a lifetime of experience speaks boldly through these lines.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-32540867824563159662022-03-23T05:54:00.002-07:002022-03-23T05:54:57.343-07:00In Time of Absence<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was unpublished in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Why come you not, as formerly you came, <br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Bringing the wine-jug and the loaf of bread?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Have you forgot the kisses without stint,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The hair disheveled, and the tumbled bed?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>What is it comes between and keeps you far,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>While the stars change and chapless moons grow old,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>While the green grasses whiten, and their seeds</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Fall pale and parching on the rainless wold?</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Silence and sunderance, with serpent fangs,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Would put their furtive poison in my blood;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>I tear distorted masks of doubt, that fold</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Your image with a false similitude.</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>I know the stifling horror of loneliness --</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>A horror that you too, my dear, have known:</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>In the dusty path conducting to my door</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>There are no other footprints than my own.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Among many poems of love that CAS wrote over his career, this one stands out for its stark recollection of the good days past and the darker days of the present. A passionate affair is recalled in the first stanza, only for the rest of the poem to give way to regrets over what once was, but is no more. The closing lines are particularly devastating:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>In the dusty path conducting to my door<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>There are no other footprints than my own.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Although the beauty of "In Time of Absence" has a melancholy nature, it is nonetheless a remarkably effective poem. I cannot help but be surprised that CAS did not choose to include this one in either of the Arkham House collections of his poetry that were published during his lifetime.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-82122213503666833762022-03-22T06:18:00.001-07:002022-03-22T06:18:28.830-07:00STYES WITH SPIRES<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here is another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was unpublished in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so the complete text follows. Note that both the title and the body of the poem were written in all capital letters in the surviving manuscript.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">A PIG PREFERS TO ROOT IN MIRE,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">A ROSE THRIVES WITH ITS ROOTS IN MUCK:<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">AND GOD, THE COINER, THRU THE FIRE,<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">PUTS MAN TO TEST THE COIN HE'S STRUCK.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">DROSS WITH THE GOLD! BUT WHY REPINE?<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">HIGH DEEDS MAY BLEND WITH LOW DESIRES.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">ROAST PORK IS GOOD, A ROSE DIVINE.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">SO LET US BUILD OUR STYES WITH SPIRES.</span></i></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the Hippocampus Press edition of <i>The Complete Poetry and Translations of Clark Ashton Smith</i>, editors S. T. Joshi and David E. Schultz describe this work as "A parody of modern poetry." That seems to be a reasonable assertion, especially given CAS' choice to present the poem exclusively in capital letters, thus commenting on the tendency of modernist poetry to experiment with odd line spacings, page formatting, etc. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">"STYES WITH SPIRES" is most certainly a very minor effort from the Bard of Auburn, and it's no surprise he chose not to publish this one.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-56889779315424355932022-03-21T07:48:00.001-07:002022-03-21T07:48:41.547-07:00The Song of Songs<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was unpublished in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Purest aroma, and amber exquisite<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Savorous honey that the bees have sucked;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The immaculate whiteness of the fleece of sheep;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The sanguine freshness of pomegranate-flowers,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The curling petals of the perfume iris,</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>eyes filled with ____ and ardor, vermilion n__ntels</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Kisses of fire; amorous complaint</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Caresses of the lover and the beloved</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>fruition of delight; fountain of life;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>reflection cast by ____ luminaries;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>intensest passion, born interiorly;</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>the celestial hymn that opens from human hearts...</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>such images the saddened soul will dream </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>at any mention of the Song of Songs.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As seen in the text above, there are some gaps in the manuscript, indicating that this poem was a left in an incomplete state by the author.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It's unusual to find a poem from CAS that directly references a Biblical text. And yet given the very earthy nature of the <i>Song of Songs</i> (aka <i>Song of Solomon</i>), it's not necessarily surprising to find that CAS would be inspired by this particular work. His own metaphorical language echoes that of the King James version, part of which reads:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Behold, thou art fair, my love;<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Behold, thou art fair;<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Thou hast doves' eyes<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Within thy locks:<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Thy hair is as a flock of goats,<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>That appear from mount Gilead.<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn,<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Which came up from the washing;<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Whereof every one bear twins,<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>And none is barren among them.</i></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">CAS' own incomplete poem is a rather minor work from his poetic corpus, but interesting nonetheless as a reminder of his great knowledge of classical source texts, including The Bible itself.</span></p>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-67316665857096866252022-03-14T07:46:00.001-07:002022-03-14T07:46:06.426-07:00Secret Worship<span style="font-family: verdana;">Here's another poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) that was unpublished in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Veiled is the altar, and the liturgy</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>is undivulged, and undivulged the vows.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>The fire no vestal builds or keeps</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>consumes its smoke in burning,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>flames not outward;</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>low-fuming are the censers;</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>discreet, the sacrifice </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>contains itself, nor bleeds for eyes profane;</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and the soft-beaten psaltries </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>are stilly toned as is the twilight bat.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Goddess, thou goest cowled,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>though not as does the chaste and sober nun.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Dark as the Cloven Hill thy hidden shrine,</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>thy nakedness</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>revealed alone to inward-shining lamps</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>and to thy worshipper.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">This poem has a highly-charged erotic subtext, so perfectly developed that I'm surprised CAS didn't choose to include this verse in either of the Arkham House collections of his poetry that were issued in his lifetime. It's a wonderful example of how CAS could use the trappings of the weird and the supernatural to express sentiments that had nothing to do with ghosts and goblins.</span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1107758010639847749.post-56434276760501760512022-03-11T07:16:00.001-08:002022-03-11T07:16:53.794-08:00Lives of the Saints<span style="font-family: verdana;">This short poem from Clark Ashton Smith (CAS) was not published in his lifetime, and is not available on The Eldritch Dark, so here's the complete text:</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>(with no apologies to Ogden Nash)</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Little find we that is fiery</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>In the monkish old papyri.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>History affords no highlight</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>On the love-life of the Stylite.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">The poem's almost-dedication explicitly references Ogden Nash, the popular writer of humorous verse who was a contemporary of CAS. Many of Ogden's poems were written in the form of single-stanza quatrains, and CAS adopted that same form for "Lives of the Saints". </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Ogden's poem "The Ostrich" is a good example of his typical approach to light verse:</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i><div>The ostrich roams the great Sahara.</div><div>Its mouth is wide, its neck is narra.</div><div>It has such long and lofty legs,</div><div>I’m glad it sits to lay its eggs.</div></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love how CAS mimics Nash's humorous approach to his subject matter, but given that "Lives of the Saints" comes from the pen of the Star-Treader himself, it's hardly surprising that the poem has a somewhat less "crowd pleasing" nature, and even manages to references the Stylites, those religious ascetics who made their homes on the tops of pillars. The erotic subtext of "Lives of the Saints" makes an interesting comparison to CAS' poem "Two on a Pillar", which I blogged about last month:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://www.desertdweller.net/2022/02/two-on-pillar.html">https://www.desertdweller.net/2022/02/two-on-pillar.html</a></span></div>Jeff in Seattlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08096023145399598798noreply@blogger.com0