Happy 128th Birthday, H.P. Lovecraft

lovecraft

Happy 128th Birthday, H.P. Lovecraft

His influence on modern horror and, strangely enough, modern occultism is nearly unfathomable. Lovecraft’s prose is emotionally charged, but in a cerebral way, while still peeling away at the layers of that primordial fear of the other that is so ingrained in our deep consciousness.

I, for one, am grateful  he was able to channel his neuroses in such a way as to leave an indelible mark on American Literature. Lovecraft is the father of cosmic horror. His imagination, his nightmares, have taken on a life all their own.

I leave you with that and Despair to dwell upon…

O’er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro’ the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
Damn’d demons of despair.

Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench’d my youth’s aspiring ember,
Liv’d there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn’d it all was dreaming –
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.

But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing –
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel’s whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.

Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.

Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.

— H.P.L.
February 19, 1919

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