Gyüjtöm Lovecraft verseit és pillanatnyilag
itt tartok,
bár még néhányat még nem tettem fel
gépre...
Tudomásom szerint magyarul még nem jelent meg
Lovecraft egyetlenegy verse sem,
én is csak angolul tudtam õket
megszerezni.
A versek:
Walked |
Fest |
Shades shift fade
imperceptible
Moonlight flicker trees dance
Shadow-cloaked earth
Window-slit wind hymn
to spirits of darkness
conjures powers eldritch and
old
The One in All:
chromatic dimensioned spheres
colors sing and shatter
fragment
(nothing but stars)
Where stars burn fiercely
Old Ones play
Incomprehensible
And dark abyssal eyes
wait silent and wise
Warned caught entranced
I am seduced enraptured
Into night-warm wells of
sleep
R'lyeh
cold watery deep
giant slumbers, trapped,
troubled
--Great Old Nautilus
Arkham Autumn
cool wind muttering
strange shadows, steeples,
grasping
swollen harvest moon
Dunwich
thunder under hills
breathe in time with
whippoorwills
--dusky psychopomps
Innsmouth
abandoned buildings
gape fish-eyed, sea smell, old
folk
lurk behind shutters
Y'ha-nthlei
below Devil's Reef
darkly shining ocean, deep
where coelacanths play
Kingsport
snow-covered city
lost and forgotten gather
--ancient Festival
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of
slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of
night,
I have lived o'er my lives without
number,
I have sounded all things with my
sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak,
being
driven to madness with
fright.
I have whirled with the earth at the
dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous
flame;
I have seen the dark universe
yawning
Where the black planets roll without
aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded,
without
knowledge or lustre or name.
I had drifted o'er seas without
ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded
skies
That the many-forked lightning is
rending,
That resound with hysterical
cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons that
out
of the green waters rise.
I have plunged like a deer through the
arches
Of the hoary primordial
grove,
Where the oaks feel the presense that
marches
And stalks on where no spirit dares
rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me,
and leers
through dead branches above.
I have stumbled by cave-riddled
mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the
plain,
I have drunk of the frog-foetid
fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the
main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things I
care not
to gaze on again.
I have scanned the vast ivy-clad
palace,
I have trod its untenanted
hall,
Where the moon rising up from the
valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the
walls;
Strange figures dischordantly woven, that I
cannot
endure to recall.
I have peered from the casements in
wonder
At the mouldering meadows
around,
At the many-roofed village laid
under
The curse of a grave-girdled
ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble I
listen
intently for sound.
I have haunted the tombs of the
ages,
I have flown on the pinions of
fear
Where the smoke-belching Erebus
rages;
Where the jokulls look snow-clad and
drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert
consumes
what it never can cheer.
I was old when the pharoahs first
mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the
Nile;
I was old in those epochs
uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in
bliss on
the far Arctic isle.
Oh, great was the sin of my
spirit,
And great is the reach of its
doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer
it,
Nor can respite be found in the
tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the
wings of
unmerciful gloom.
Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of
slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of
night,
I have lived o'er my lives without
number,
I have sounded all things with my
sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak,
being
driven to madness with
fright.
Eternal brood the shadows on this
ground,
Dreaming of centuries that have gone
before;
Great elms rise solemnly by slab and
mound,
Arched high above a hidden world of
yore.
Round all the scene a light of memory
plays,
And dead leaves whisper of departed
days,
Longing for sights and sounds that are no
more.
Lonely and sad, a specter glides
along
Aisles where of old his living footsteps
fell;
No common glance discerns him, though his
song
Peals down through time with a mysterious
spell.
Only the few who sorcery's secret
know,
Espy amidst these tombs the shade of
Poe.
The steeples are white in the wild
moonlight,
And the trees have a silver
glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires
fly,
And the harpies of upper
air,
That flutter and laugh and
stare.
For the village dead to the moon
outspread
Never shone in the sunset's
gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years
keep
Where the rivers of madness
stream
Down the gulfs to a pit of
dream.
A chill wind blows through the rows of
sheaves
In the meadows that shimmer
pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones
shine
And the ghouls of the churchyard
wail
For harvests that fly and
fail.
Not a breath of the strange grey gods of
change
That tore from the past its
own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral
power
Spreads sleep o'er the cosmic
throne,
And looses the vast
unknown.
So here again stretch the vale and
plain
That moons long-forgotten
saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid
ray,
Sprung out of the tomb's black
maw
To shake all the world with
awe.
And all that the morn shall greet
forlorn,
The ugliness and the
pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones and
brick,
Shall some day be with the
rest,
And brood with the shades
unblest.
Then wild in the dark let the lemurs
bark,
And the leprous spires
ascend;
For new and old alike in the
fold
Of horror and death are
penned,
For the hounds of Time to
rend.
Babels of blocks to the high heavens
towering
Flames of futility swirling
below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone
flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that
glow.
Black monstrous bridges across oily
rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things
spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos
delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the
sun.
Colour and splendour, disease and
decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling
insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods
praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the
brain.
Legions of cats from the alleys
nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the
moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings
infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto's red
rune.
Tall towers and pyramids ivy'd and
crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber'd
streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o'er rivers whose
rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde
retreats.
Belfries that buckle against the moon
totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses
effac'd,
And living to answer the wind and the
water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the
wastes.
In shadowed Ulthar, where the moonbeams
fall
Draping the chimneys with a silver
pall
Where the people work by light of
day
And trade with the merchants from down Hatheg
way
In Ulthar, one must all cats
respect
No cat in Ulthar ever knows
neglect
For the cats of Ulthar are special
ones
Old ones that drowse by the light of the
sun
Young ones that sing when the moon fills the
sky
Wise ones that gaze with intelligent
eye
Kittens that caper on slanted
rooftops
Teasing the moon till the Old Man cries
"Stop!"
Leaping and climbing from gable to
gable
Till rooftops are seething with calico and
sable
Until finally, the sunrise
When they narrow their bright
eyes
Down from rooftops they
gambol
And homeward they amble
To nap on the hearth till the sun should go
down
And the gibbous moon rises on their little
town
And the star-pinned night sky will send out
its call
In shadowed Ulthar, where the moonbeams
fall
Across the nighted deeps of
space
Past Neptune cold and dim,
Where solar wastes meet starry
voids
Is Yuggoth on the rim.
From the wells of night to the gulfs of
space,
Beyond the sun's wan glim,
On gossamer wings come flying the
Fungi
From Yuggoth on the rim.
Lost in the darkened hills where they lurked,
I
Heard their voices coarse and
grim,
Whisper of space, and time, and stranger
things
On Yuggoth on the rim.
In darkling woods, encircled, they
gathered,
Chanting an eldritch hymn:
"Ia! Nyarlathotep! who brought strange
joy
To Yuggoth on the rim."
In sibilant tones they sang of
Shub
Niggurath's fabulous vim;
Of Yog-Sothoth, who dwells
beyond
Even Yuggoth on the rim.
Tomorrow they will take me
there
Through spacetime's limpid
scrim,
Across vast chasms of empty
space
To Yuggoth on the rim.
Gathered together for the centuried
rite;
Across snow-covered ground we walk bleakly
t'ward home,
Through archaic Kingsport and streets seldom
trodden,
After sunset's last rays have sunk into the
gloam.
Only the lonely and poor still
remember
Why we have come to this place out of
time;
In this strange haunted city where once lived
our elders,
With its gambrels and gables all covered with
rime.
In the last ancient house at the end of the
alley
We are met by the priest in his waxen-faced
mask;
From blasphemous books we relearn the
rituals,
Through tunnels beneath we descend to our
task.
In green-litten caverns we hold dark
communion,
Near a subterrene river where ghouls fear to
tread.
With wild harmonies and songs
cacophonic,
We sing and we laugh as we feast with the
dead.
Then beyond the blackness from over the
river,
Where the green flame burns bright and the
black waters fall,
Come our mounts that are neither a mole nor a
buzzard,
But something a sane man could never
recall.
Far back in the shades of these gangrenous
caverns,
In the depths of this cosmic Tartarean
hall;
Are shapes of vile things that somehow are
moving:
Vile things that walk but ought only to
crawl.
Maddened, we rush down that black, oily
river,
Past chaotic cataracts that thunder and
boom;
Through caverns infernal on wings gaunt and
membranous,
Our steeds flop and fly as we rejoice in our
doom.
Yes, only a few of us old ones
remember--
Only the cursed and the sad
demon-kissed;
And snow fills the footprints that wend
through the alley,
And the last ancient house disappears in the
mist.