That’s like a poem. About pink. And warm. And ending. And ice cream, peach. And laughter dying out Slowly from every summertime Get-together everyone In the whole wide world Ever had on a holiday With family and pinwheels And little red white and blue flags Sticking out of the short green grass. Its peachfuzz voice says: We’re still free, People. And then it goes to bed. And we’re tired, too— After all the talking and children Playing and ladies laying Out for the first suntan Of the season… Where you fall asleep Right there In that cocktail light With or without A reason.
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutiliated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
deem not tomorrow
sentient or flesh
torment not a
somber hope a
flint to flame
one small tool
breath be quick
dry and crackle
each spark—one day
all you own—
one day—not hope
The place was dark and dusty and half-lost
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.
Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just shewed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rotting from floor to roof—congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.
I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,
Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.
– Howard Phillips Lovecraft, ca. 1930
Illustration by Eric Yorke. Lovecraft’s poetry is free to use and dwells in the Public Domain. (Source: Facebook, The Lovecraft Eternal Community)