Midnight Waters

14


(A night for Hell’s Gatekeeper)


The fog has shifted, risen from Hades’ Sea, and the once dark mist has become unthreaded along the pier; the Gatekeeper’s voice now roams the Midnight Waters, amongst the ripples, and echoes in the charcoal air, along the midnight sea—; vibrations in the earth’s crust, shifts the rowboats, to and fro, up and down Hades Coast, out into, and through the deep, to let the oarsman’s know, the gate’s of Hell are closed, but will be opened once they reappear, over the midnight waters.

The Gatekeeper chants from the heavy-iron-lidded gates, mouth opened, tongue hanging out like a thirsty bull, in the shape of a snake, loyal to the archangel of ten-wings, who calls to the darkness and the midnight light, to bring in the incarnate ghouls to be—amongst the midnight waters, for eternity, for time has been incalculable for him, and the ghouls have been waiting, waiting, holding their breaths, for this momentous moment, when they (phantoms of the earth) will be sanctified into Hell’s gray-dark mirage, thus, given their third birth.

Henceforward, on they go, as the Gatekeeper waits for this earth-shattering once flash, now of a ghostly mass, to appear in the Midnight Waters.

“Nay!” he cries, “nay…a few more moments…” he exclaims to himself, he does not know hours or days, for time is scattered among ashes of long past infamous names. Now he hears the roaring of Hades Sea, the whirling dusts of Hell, and much too much grinding of teeth, yelping, and tears: the ghouls have appeared.

#2169 1-21-2008 (here is Part one of two Parts)


Pure Poetry Review and Commentary: Pure Poetry: pure but mysterious poetry is or has been looked upon as either too highbrow, or too lowbrow, depending what generation you were born in, raised in, or happened to slip into. I can only define such things in my own terms. Some folks, who have jumped into this genre of poetry, have become too soft, or too morbid. There never seems to be a balance. Robert Howard did a good job in this area, Clark A. Smith, was slanted to the more morbid side, and H.P.

Lovecraft was a tinge in the middle someplace. George Sterling was perhaps the more flexible of the group, but could he be considered pure poetry then, since he did put restrictions onto himself; Robinson Jeffers on the other hand did his best, but wasn't the equal to the others I've mentioned so far, so I feel, but close. Lin Carter made his point in this genus style of poetry and to me was not the equal of the others I've mentioned thus far; but Richard L. Tierney was good and overlooked--there are more to mention but not enough space to mention them.

Pure poetry has a flare for the fantastic. The imaginative poetry of this type comes out to its limits of expression; perhaps a forgotten art nowadays. My friend Phillip Ellis is perhaps one of the last, of the new generation to pick up on this dying style. Myself, I am a variation of it: I use and like the style, the symbolism, images and metaphors it demands to have. Yet I am myself am in violation of this like Sterling--both of us guilty of not using its full force, as Clark A. Smith did; not saying he was better than Sterling or Tierney or Howard. Some might say I scratched its surface compared to others, if indeed this is the case, then I am happy I did that much, and left the morbidity out; it is not in my veins to go beyond the limits of my values, not out of sainthood, perhaps out of knighthood more so. With this I conclude with these last words: in this type of poetry, the swine doesn't normally pick out the pearls, nor can find them, so don't expect for them to notice them.