THE SONG OF YSTE

The Weird Verses of RAWL, Volume I

EDITED by ALLEN MACKEY

Editor's Note: This is a collection of the weird poetry of Robert A. W.

Lowndes, which is now in the Public Domain. Be that as it may,
RAWL is a great author from the pulp era and the 1960s paperback
boom, and he should not be forgotten. His was an important voice
during his editorships of several influential magazines, and he most
certainly did his part to help keep the Lovecraftian flame alive. Yes,
RAWL was an important part of the pulp fiction era, and here are
some of his weird verses, which I believe have never been reprinted
together. This one is for you, RAWL!

INTRODUCTION: THE LOVECRAFTIAN

VERSES OF RAWL
by Allen Mackey

One of the first pulp fiction-era authors to write Lovecraftian verses

was Robert A. W. Lowndes (hereafter referred to as "RAWL"). Most
of his poems has languished for decades within crumbling, pulpy
pages, but now--thanks to the online Luminist Archive and Internet
Archive--we have access to these forgotten classics of weird fiction.
Additionally, we have the first usage of the title "The Burrowers
Beneath"--decades before Brian Lumley! There are also a few other
classics here in this small collection, which could easily be called "The
Yste Myth-Cycle." We also have three examples of A. Merritt-
influenced verses. But now, for the first time, we have an edition of
these "Lovecraftian Verses" available for the Weird Fiction
connoisseur of Pulp Poetry.

--Allen Mackey, December 2017

Table of Contents:

Annals of Arkya (Sonnet-Cycle)

01. The Courier (1980)

02. The Worshippers (1980)
03. Liberation (1980)
04. The Guardian (1980)
05. The Summons (1981)
06. The Viola (1981)
Ambition
The Burrowers Beneath

Edgar Allan Poe

For Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Forbidden Books

Lurani

Nyaghoggua

The People of the Pit

To A. Merritt: "The Face in the Abyss"

To A. Merritt: Who Wrote the Snake Mother ["Song of Nimir"]

The Wind from the River

The Woman of Ice

Epilogue

by Allen Mackey

*****************************************************************

ANNALS OF ARKYA

NOTE: This document is a compilation of the near-legendary sonnet-

cycle called Annals of Arkya by the old school Weird Tales author,
Robert A. W. Lowndes. [Currently in my collection; which is sadly
incomplete.] By the way, the Annals of Arkya is thematically related
to Lowndes's Cthulhu Mythos tome, the Song of Yste. First we will
begin with a complete listing of the sonnets (notice that the first six
can be thought of as the first part.) It is not too far of a stretch to
think of "Annals of Arkya" as part of the Song of Yste. Here is what I
have of the "Annals of Arkya."
--Editor, Allen Mackey

ANNALS OF ARKYA
(SONNET-CYCLE)

01. The Courier (1980)

02. The Worshippers (1980)
03. Liberation (1980)
04. The Guardian (1980)
05. The Summons (1981)
06. The Viola (1981)
07. The Poet (1991)
08. The Street (1945)
09. The Council (1945)
10. The House (1945)
11. The Whisperer (1991)
12. The Crawler (1991)

Annals of Arkya . . .

1. The Courier

The darkness trembled with a dream of light,

And flame-tipped shadows whispered in the room:
"Remember. ” From the lonely sea, a flight
Of eldritch bird-things shrilled of nameless doom.
I fled the cursed house and strode the height
Of cavern-pierced Kondath to resume
My eon-weary search before the night
Expired, and dread day lashed me to the tomb.

From out of the caverns, mewling vashti came

To mock me in my terror, till the same
Fell whisper scattered them and grisly dawn
Destroyed me; yet, before I fell, I heard
The fearful courier’s long-awaited word:
"Remember when you were the Eidolon!”

2. The Worshippers

Colossal on the planet’s youthful face,

I rose into the azure, cloud-flecked skies,
A thing of frozen midnight’s mysteries.
Hewn not by living hands, nor any trace
Of craftsmanship was on me. Emperor
And highest pontiff, soldier, serf, and sage—
None in the golden land would dare engage
In any task without my dark concur.

Great was the land until those latter years.

When from the sea the fearful Vorklai came
To drown in bitter blood and put to flame
The cities, till the very stones shed tears.
Around me did the vile usurpers press
And mouth my name in drooling loathsomeness.

3. Liberation

What eons passed, what dread stars waxed and waned,

While I was dust? I cannot tell. The mirth
Of winds fell on me; seas received me; earth
Gave fruit, and myriad growing things contained
My being, till a book of elder reek
Became my resting place. A secret shelf
Contained the curious volume and myself
While nightly, burning eyes therein did seek.

Deep were the shadows in the mystic’s room.

Lewd pipings issued from an unseen fife.
And scent of incense hovered in the air:
I waited as he chanted of the stair
To Arkya, and pronounced the tones of doom.
Then once again I knew the state called life.

4. The Guardian

Above all things he was respectable.

His very presence breathed propriety;
A stately pillar of society,
He found all time-worn things commendable.
Science, he said, perhaps was tolerable
Up to a certain point, but then the Gods
Would rise in wrath and smite with fiery rods
The impious and questing radical.
I came upon him poring through the book
Of ancient Arkya, with the seal of Yste.
It must be burned, he said, and fairly hissed
A name. I sang the Dirka song and took
The volume as he vainly fought and fell
To leave a perfect, empty, human shell.

5. The Summons

A dream in metal was the argosy

They built to span the brooding face of night
Between the far-flung planets, and the light
Of bright desire shone on their victory.
All labor ceased within the realm; the cry
Of festive holiday arose, for ere a week
Had passed the valiant voyagers would seek
The verities beyond the azure sky.

None heard the deadly summons from the stars

To those that dwelt unseen within the lands.
Or guessed the fruit of hellish sorcery,
Until the earth erupted burrowers
And bloody chaos sprouted from their hands—
The mindless legion of the Enemy.

6. The Viola

It was an instrument no mortal hand

Dare touch, they said, and crossed themselves:
a spell
Of evil lay upon it. One would tell
How Yarish found it in an attic, and
Relate in whispers of the prodigies
Befalling his last concert: shadows left
Their proper place to dance, and folks, bereft,
Engaged in lewd and hellish revelries.

I took the shunned viola from its place.

To 'play a long-forgotten melody
And found myself lost in a revelrie
That swept my fingers into bows and chords
Undreamed. But this recalled their warning words:
The counterpoint that issued out of space!

First published: (Parts 1 and 2) Weird Tales 1, edited by Lin Carter, 1980; (Parts
3 and 4) Weird Tales 2, edited by Lin Carter, 1981; (Parts 5 and 6) Weird Tales 3,
edited by Lin Carter, 1981.

Note: The six poems that comprise the "New Annals of Arkya" were published in
Robert M. Price's influential fanzine, Crypt of Cthulhu 78, St. John's Eve, 1991.

AMBITION

He stood upon the rim of time and whispered: night,

Let me explore your face and know each wheeling star

Upon it; let me plunge into the seas of light

Which bathe strange worlds, unknown, in galaxies afar.

And let me learn the baffling music of the spheres,

And with these cosmic notes notes new melodies create

That I may route with song the multitude of fears

Which chain the human soul in endless war and hate.

For I shall go beyond . . . Outside the mortal ken,

Beyond the walls of time, the veils of life and death,

And pluck forbidden fruits from trees unknown to men,

And listen to eternity's last gasping breath.

He sighed: my mad desires are vaster, far, than all

Creation, although I am pitifully small.

First published: Cosmic Stories, March 1941.

THE BURROWERS BENEATH

The stars that gave them birth remember when they were supreme

And reared their seven cities and their stately monoliths

Upon the crest of a young world. Now only ancient myths

Recall them vaguely, nor do haughty humans ever dream

They will survive. Across the brooding face of Time

A veil is drawn, and though men, seeking truth, may often find

Strange relics of the genius of some other, alien mind,

Such men heed not for they are blind with vanity sublime.

They swarm the deeper caverns and the monumental tombs

Of men they rule, in grim delight; deep in shunned depths they stalk

Beneath the streets of city, town, and unknown hamlet, small

The sightless, hate-filled horrors listen, bide their time, and crawl.

For on Fate's dark and hideous page their day of vengeance looms:
The Burrowers, who, ere men came had vanquished them, did walk.

First published: Stirring Science Stories, April 1941.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

In Shadowland thy spirit's bright desire

Was cast, condemned by fortune to abide;

Thy star-crossed soul and dark satanic pride,

Promethean-chained, did evermore aspire

To cosmic splendor and the Titan's throne.

And all thy wounded sensitivity

Burst forth in strange, ethereal melody

That fell on deaf ears and hearts alone.

Brother of all whose souls ill-angels haunt,

Whose pallid brows are lit with unknown flame,

Hast thou found Aidenn and thy lost Lenore?

Or do thy mad bells and thy raven gaunt

Within thy tortured ears still shriek the same

Cacophony of "never . . . nevermore"?

First published: Fantastic Novels, September 1940.

FOR HOWARD PHILLIPS LOVECRAFT

The pathos of a great moth, beautiful,

Crushed by the world's fanatic cruelty,

Drawn ever onward by the mystical,

Eternal light of unknown fantasy.

--Robert W. Lowndes

First published: Famous Fantastic Mysteries, October 1941.

FORBIDDEN BOOKS

No earthly metal this, that clasps these ancient tomes,

That crawls and writhes beneath the gloved hands that seek

Their pages to disclose. Unlocked, the noxious reek

Of alien corruption, glyphs in monochromes

Upon the curious pages, faint with human scent

Of some once-lovely skin, blood-drawn caricatures

Of things that just evade the grasp, whose sight conjures

Malefic wonderings, and strange, dark passions blent

With memories (grown dim), of blasphemies which sleep

Within, or drawn apart, and that which never dies,

Assail the senses of the reader . . . . There was one

Who found the cursed volumes, hidden from the sun,

And read therein . . . . He flung them back into the deep

Sea's self and evermore mad horror filled his eyes.

First published: Stirring Science Stories, June 1941.

LURANI

She is not as mortal women, strange Lurani of the Sea,

As the desert she is alien; as the night wind she is free;

And her flesh is lightly tinted with the sheen of waters still,

With the green of placid waters, and her touch is damp and chill.

As the lily of the swamplands, as the stately lily lolling,

She is tall and finely fashioned, and her dark hair, gently falling,

Is alive: it creeps and quivers over shoulder, thigh, and breast-

Slowly creeps and curls, caressing the soft contours of her breast.
In the eyes of my Lurani, in her deep eyes, gently gleaming,

I can see strange thoughts, exotic, and desires that set me dreaming

Of the mighty Sea triumphant, as she strokes me with her hand,

As she languously strokes me with her curious webbed hand.

I have lain beside Lurani in her pythonlike embrace

Through the nights that were immortal, and the evil in her face

Evermore shall keep me ardent, while her dark eyes o'er me gloat,

Till the night I feel her tresses tighten around my throat.

First published: Unknown Fantasy Fiction, February 1940.

NYAGHOGGUA

Deep in the heart of time it lies supreme

And hideous in dread malignancy,

Replete with galaxies devoured, the

Krakan within, Nyaghoggua; some who dream

Not wisely, seek, not by the paths of sleep,

Yuggoth and Sarucene, or lost Sthanee

And far-flung, shadowed Lanth, the Upas tree

Gigantic and infernal, or the deep,

Horrific realms of R’lyeh will find, too late,

Offtimes the veil of outer space is worn,

Great rifts occur; and, through the strangely torn,

Gouged walls, appear its servitors that wait

Under the rim of space: they come, and then

Are weird rites practiced on what once were men.

—Robert W. Lowndes

Commentary: "Nyaghoggua." This rare Cthulhu Mythos poem by

Doc Lowndes was first published in a pulp fiction magazine called
Famous Fantastic Mysteries, April 1941. It is part of the so-called
"Yste Myth-Cycle," a seldom-encountered area of the Cthulhu Mythos
that had been spawned by the pulp fiction of RAWL. Personally I
consider this to be a part of The Song of Yste.

First published in Famous Fantastic Mysteries, April 1941.

THE PEOPLE OF THE PIT

They have not dreamed nor slept, nor can the black veil of the years,

Bestrewn with cities, emperors, and gleam of conquests, long

Conceal the primal instinct of their presence, nor the throng

Of glories men parade before themselves efface the fears

That writhe within them, subtly as grey tendrils of a mist

Upon the lowlands. They have slept not; all the evil that

Was lost with Naat endures in them; that spawn that Lanth begat

They have perfected, to set free when their immortal tryst

With that which dwells outside of Time and Space is ended. *** One

There was who chanted runes invoking that which could oppose

Them; then it was that all men rose to drive them, hastily,

Into the pit and seal the walls thereof, But time has done

A hideous thing, for, year by year, the carvings crumble; those

Who dream have told in vain the horror that some day shall be.

--Robert W. Lowndes

Dedicated to A. Merritt's story

"The People of the Pit"

in the current issue of Fantastic Novels

which is on the newsstands now.

First published: Famous Fantastic Mysteries, February 1941.

FOR A. MERRITT: "The Face in the Abyss"

In dreams the shadows leaped beyond the fragile veils of time

 And wrought this horror: now the great face of the moon assumes

The Dark One's likeness and it's livid countenance relumes

All that was vanquished in Atlanchi; lo, the hideous mime

Relives as, now across the spanless, bleak abyss,

It looms, colossal in its Luciferian pride,

And, powerless to stem the mounting, world-engulfing tide

Of evil, all men undergo the metamorphosis.

Dance, shining ones, with me along the endless road of worlds!

Dance to the lutes of flame that sing in ravished cities and

The chant of death-drums; threnody of reddening steel, the cries

Of lovely women fallen neath our gold-shod mounts! What lies

Beyond when all the Earth is plundered? Then, at its command,

Shall we build starry argosies to loot the night-flung worlds!

First published in Famous Fantastic Mysteries, October 1940.

TO A. MERRITT: WHO WROTE THE

SNAKE MOTHER

Song of Nimir
They have shackled me with symbols drawn in flaming runes of light;

They have hurled me in this dungeon in an ecstasy of fright.

But they tremble at my shadow in the radiant abyss

And they cower at my whisper through the macrocosmic night.

They have hearkened to Adana; they have bowed before her hiss;

They have bartered all my splendour for a perfumed serpent's kiss,

And the valiant Yu-Atlanchi that was glory to my sight

Has become a woman's plaything and a white necropolis.

Hear me, Serpent! Nimir vows this mockery shall be no more!

Did you think these paltry magics could contain me? While you may,

Drink your scented wine of triumph, ancient mother. I shall leap

Out beyond the stars and find a way to settle our old score.

Now beseech the Lord of Fate to tell you when will come my day,

For what a scarlet harvest then shall fallen Nimir reap.

--Robert W. Lowndes

First published: Fantastic Novels, November 1940.

THE WIND FROM THE RIVER

He did not like the sinuous shapes that writhing tress

Assumed, when, from the river an obnoxious wind

Blew ceaselessly. It made him think of monstrous, blind,

Demented things. . . And ever on the dampish breeze

There lingered certain, nameless scents detestable,

Which drove his hounds to maddened flight, and then the sound

Of plaintive cries and alien whisperings around

The mansion, made complete the grim, mephitic spell.

None would believe him when he spoke of hideous things,

Unhuman, robot-like, by sentient shapes controlled,

And told the curious fates of those who, before

His residence therein, had likewise striven for

Assistance . . . Now the semi-crumbling mansion brings

No profit: tenants say it's always damp and cold.

First published: Stirring Science Stories, April 1941.

THE WOMAN OF ICE

Her eyes reflect the opalescent fires

Of suns that waxed and waned before the earth

Received the dust of those that gave her birth

In nameless sorcery. The moon aspires

In vain her mocking beauty to enslave.

And when the moon has burst apart, the skies

With dust are ringed, and bitter prophecies

Have been fulfilled, the secret runes that gave

Her life shall not have passed away; alone,

In naked triumph none shall look on, this

Mad thing that lust created shall, supreme

Among the dead, reign on, and often dream

Of olden loves. And many a skeleton

Shall feel the icy languor of her kiss.

--Robert W. Lowndes

First published: Famous Fantastic Mysteries, December 1940.

****************************************************************************

EPILOGUE: There are some more poems by RAWL, to be sure, and I

wish that I had copies of them so that I could reprint them here.
When I do get copies of them, there will surely be a Volume II of THE
SONG OF YSTE. For the completist, the poems that I need to collect
include:
 1. Baltimore, October 3rd (1969)

2. Fateful Hour (1937) [only as by Robert W. Lowndes]

3. For the Intelligentsia (1942) [only as by R. W. Lowndes

4. New Annals of Arkya

5. Parodies Tossed: Damon Knight's "Hells Pavement" (1956)

[only as by Michael Sherman]

6. Quarry (1941) [only as by Robert W. Lowndes]

Once these poems are tracked down, the second volume will appear.
Or perhaps they will be published in a larger volume, all together.
We'll see.

--Allen Mackey, December 2017