Welcome to Moorcock's Miscellany

Dear reader,

Many people have given their valuable time to create a website for the pleasure of posing questions to Michael Moorcock, meeting people from around the world, and mining the site for information. Please follow one of the links above to learn more about the site.

Thank you,
Reinart der Fuchs
See more
See less

Poet's Corner at the Edge of Time...

  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts
  • Marc
    Denizen of Moo Uria
    • Jul 2004
    • 116

    Poet's Corner at the Edge of Time...

    This one arrived upon the wings of a dream...


    At the sight of Death should I be afraid
    At the root of the Mandrake world
    Where forbidden flowers gently wave and beckon
    Should I enter within and not return?
    On the desert road of Hanasis shall I gather
    the Relar, yellow and pale, from the
    Gardens of the Watching Wizard
    Who sits frowning at charts of stars
    In patterns far beyond mortal ken,
    Should I follow my dream and seeing
    The beacon scatter diamondspray in the
    Haunting stillness of an alien sky
    Deep the blue, and twilight the hour
    Whereupon the dawn I shall take
    The winding paths with the grim caravan traders
    Who endure silently the golden seduction
    Of a magical sun--shining brightly
    Oh so brightly, on the morn of our parting
    A far and distant journey to where the
    Traitor's hand lies, cursed by obliquity,
    With cruel foresight shall I wander
    Through the carousel rainshadow
    To where the phosphorescent waters twirl endlessly
    In eddying pools of heaven stolen quicksilver
    To finally following that fair, tortuous coastline
    On the other side of memory amid obsidian images
    Where sable seabirds call and fly
    Above crashing breakers where the light fades
    Into a delicate peach,
    O there shall I dwindle within yearning sight
    Of the lost city of Enarellen,
    More deadly than a single tear,
    Where my soul aches to go
    Where my foot fears to tread
    With what my heart dares to know...
  • Count_Brass
    Lord of the Swamplands
    • Nov 2004
    • 55

    Can't we have something more befitting contemporary sentiments?
    Like losing your password or mobile phone, like too many hormones in our food effininating the passionate young lover beyond repair or something about Terri Schiavo and the Philistines of Today?

    As he sits there against the wall
    in his long white dish-dash
    calm, reticent, perhaps knowing all?
    Oh, the whiteness of your dish-dash.
    Clean shaven, no sweat on his brow.

    Once, not long ago, I'd taken you for my lover,
    yet others decided for you and for me:- not now!
    They gave you a cause for bomb-throwing
    in your white dish-dash
    And me an order and lots of unknowing.
    I shot you, my dark and handsome would-be.
    Don't ask why, but your white dish-dash
    now sports a trickling red sash.

    That sort of thing. The example is ex-promptu and terrible ( :oops: ), but maybe felt by a young soildier on patrol in Iraq. Excuse in any case!
    I'm just fed up with phony-sounding "archaic" style poetry relating to traitors and long forgotten cities, but not any of today's issues.
    Come in, you're most welcome, but leave Envy at my castle's gates ... for it is a poison we are unable to cure, and you'd be its first sad victim yourself.


    • Guest's Avatar

      Didn't ask for your opinion, old chap. You're welcome to add whatever poetry you like (as you have) and I shall continue to write in the style that pleases me. Good day to you.


      • Marc
        Denizen of Moo Uria
        • Jul 2004
        • 116

        That was me above--forgot to sign in again. Sigh.


        • Doc
          Eternal Champion
          • Jan 2004
          • 3630

          Absolutely, Marc!

          We at the end of time are supposed to pass our days according to our own hedonistic whims, after all. :D

          Keep doing what makes you happy. And share it.


          • Marc
            Denizen of Moo Uria
            • Jul 2004
            • 116

            I will. And thank you for your encouragement and support, Doc.


            • Marc
              Denizen of Moo Uria
              • Jul 2004
              • 116

              In fact, here's another one...

              'Dark Tides'

              Where does nothing go
              (the broken shades on the tarmac)
              When it is followed through to its bitterest end?
              What is eternity
              Beyond a remembered kiss stolen in the hollow
              of a throat
              If it is not the dust of ages, echoing,
              Sifting slowly through the palms of time,
              Drifting down--or is it up??--in patterns
              which repeat themselves endlessly in iteration
              The only difference is the scale
              --and that is relative;
              Against this vast, restless backdrop one life is as
              A single twinkle of a star,
              The sudden splash in the moonlit swell,
              Briefly shining, gone, gone, like the wave
              in stark contrast to its medium
              Original, each, aching for meaning
              denied at the last
              Ego stops halted at the doors of Death
              and dissolves, shuddering, grasping desperately
              At life departed,
              Fading, the slight stirring of leaves in the wind,
              such effort--
              The shadow at the periphery of the eye,
              The unbidden guest departing before dawn,
              Before recognition,
              And a lump in the throat, a sad duration
              will not come again in precisely the same way,
              A child's laughter and a senile giggle
              Point to the sundering of innocence
              snatched by experience between these ends
              Which meet, full circle,
              In the weave of fate
              Where for one waking moment
              We fool ourselves, that it is not too late...


              • Typhoid_Mary
                Little Voice
                • Jun 2004
                • 541

                A response to Count_Brass's comment in the form of a haiku:

                So negative, Brass?
                A poet's style is his own
                Rolling eyes go here


                Nice imagery, Marc.


                • Marc
                  Denizen of Moo Uria
                  • Jul 2004
                  • 116

                  Why thank you Mary, how good of you to say... :)


                  • Count_Brass
                    Lord of the Swamplands
                    • Nov 2004
                    • 55

                    I apologize firmly for having hurt your feelings with my criticism.
                    Even my consort chided me for allowing a dark mood rule over my words.
                    That's my temperament, alas.
                    Anyway - sorry, and your second poem is much more to my liking as it could (and perhaps does) plausibly deal with feelings of today. Please carry on.
                    Come in, you're most welcome, but leave Envy at my castle's gates ... for it is a poison we are unable to cure, and you'd be its first sad victim yourself.


                    • Marc
                      Denizen of Moo Uria
                      • Jul 2004
                      • 116

                      My dear Count_Brass, your apology is accepted with the same good grace with which it was made. Thank you. :)

                      Poetry is very subjective and it's certainly a form I've always struggled with. Prose is a much easier beast to wrestle to the ground! Part of the problem is that in poetry the words flow, as it were--that was certainly the case with my first poem--and the dilemma artistically is whether subsequent revisions detract from the "feeling" of the original. While I agree it could most likely be (vastly) improved by editing (and probably by a complete deletion), I still enjoy trying to figure out what my subconscious was trying to tell me, when I first wrote it, fresh from sleep.



                      • A_Non_Ymous
                        • Jul 2004
                        • 2659


                        Would you like to particpate in the villanelle game we're having, where we all write a set of verses in a fixed form to a jointly chosen set of end rhymes?

                        We're still selecting the words, and you can help, if you're interested. The thread is in this forum.


                        P.S. Tu es Quأ©becois? Il ya beaucoup de francophones ici.


                        • Marc
                          Denizen of Moo Uria
                          • Jul 2004
                          • 116

                          Sure, I'd love to! :)

                          First, I'll drop a line in what i think is the right thread and you can always re-direct me if I'm wrong.

                          As for where I'm from, it's on the opposite coast actually--B.C. Don't speak a word of French but I do love Paris in the springtime...


                          • Marc
                            Denizen of Moo Uria
                            • Jul 2004
                            • 116


                            Last words are taken in, counsel heeded
                            The stillness before the storm
                            A far light in the sky,
                            Low clouds, gray and sun-tinged, the horizon stretches
                            Beyond, what--what do you see--what you thought it would be?
                            Towers, tall above imagining beckon beyond,
                            The snow lies muddy and trampled,
                            Not quite the white of purity
                            The path is harder upon the shoulder of the frozen forest
                            Haunted by starless spaces, waiting unseen
                            Or perhaps the path lies in another direction,
                            Previously unheeded
                            Clean glades of sun kissed orchids, the ocean a whisper of surf
                            On the ears, longed for--the salt tang in the air--and shadows fall behind,
                            Forward all is motion,
                            Surging promise of many themes blended together, unsullied by none
                            The path is liquid and splashes arcs of eternity,
                            Choice is in freedom
                            The result foreknowledge if all
                            Lies well in the intent, meaning is purpose
                            Living is breathing and breathing is joy...


                            • lemec
                              Eternal Champion
                              • Jul 2005
                              • 5317

                              Hello, I was reading through the poetry threads and I enjoyed what I saw!

                              I wanted to post this poem here just for your entertainment since we all like the Eternal Champion stories. I know this is mostly for personal works,but I thought someone might enjoy this in case there was someone on here who never read it. I am talking about that poem General George S. Patton,Jr. wrote. To me, it sounds like he is one of the Eternal Champions! or maybe an eternal companion to a champion. hehe. I happened to read it again recently and thought I'd put it on here somewhere. Anyway, here it is.

                              THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
                              by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.

                              Through the travail of the ages,
                              Midst the pomp and toil of war,
                              Have I fought and strove and perished
                              Countless times upon this star.

                              In the form of many people
                              In all panoplies of time
                              Have I seen the luring vision
                              Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

                              I have battled for fresh mammoth,
                              I have warred for pastures new,
                              I have listed to the whispers
                              When the race trek instinct grew.

                              I have known the call to battle
                              In each changeless changing shape
                              From the high souled voice of conscience
                              To the beastly lust for rape.

                              I have sinned and I have suffered,
                              Played the hero and the knave;
                              Fought for belly, shame, or country,
                              And for each have found a grave.

                              I cannot name my battles
                              For the visions are not clear,
                              Yet, I see the twisted faces
                              And I feel the rending spear.

                              Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
                              In His sacred helpless side.
                              Yet, I've called His name in blessing
                              When after times I died.

                              In the dimness of the shadows
                              Where we hairy heathens warred,
                              I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
                              We used teeth before the sword.

                              While in later clearer vision
                              I can sense the coppery sweat,
                              Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
                              When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.

                              Hear the rattle of the harness
                              Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
                              See their chariots wheel in panic
                              From the Hoplite's leveled spear.

                              See the goal grow monthly longer,
                              Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
                              Hear the crash of tons of granite,
                              Smell the quenchless eastern fire.

                              Still more clearly as a Roman,
                              Can I see the Legion close,
                              As our third rank moved in forward
                              And the short sword found our foes.

                              Once again I feel the anguish
                              Of that blistering treeless plain
                              When the Parthian showered death bolts,
                              And our discipline was in vain.

                              I remember all the suffering
                              Of those arrows in my neck.
                              Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
                              As I died upon my back.

                              Once again I smell the heat sparks
                              When my Flemish plate gave way
                              And the lance ripped through my entrails
                              As on Crecy's field I lay.

                              In the windless, blinding stillness
                              Of the glittering tropic sea
                              I can see the bubbles rising
                              Where we set the captives free.

                              Midst the spume of half a tempest
                              I have heard the bulwarks go
                              When the crashing, point blank round shot
                              Sent destruction to our foe.

                              I have fought with gun and cutlass
                              On the red and slippery deck
                              With all Hell aflame within me
                              And a rope around my neck.

                              And still later as a General
                              Have I galloped with Murat
                              When we laughed at death and numbers
                              Trusting in the Emperor's Star.

                              Till at last our star faded,
                              And we shouted to our doom
                              Where the sunken road of Ohein
                              Closed us in it's quivering gloom.

                              So but now with Tanks a'clatter
                              Have I waddled on the foe
                              Belching death at twenty paces,
                              By the star shell's ghastly glow.

                              So as through a glass, and darkly
                              The age long strife I see
                              Where I fought in many guises,
                              Many names, but always me.

                              And I see not in my blindness
                              What the objects were I wrought,
                              But as God rules o'er our bickerings
                              It was through His will I fought.

                              So forever in the future,
                              Shall I battle as of yore,
                              Dying to be born a fighter,
                              But to die again, once more.

                              "With a deep, not-unhappy sigh, Elric prepared to do battle with an army." (Red Pearls)
                              - Michael Moorcock