Clark A. Smith: Highway of the Dead

Highway of the Dead [Two poems: Clark A. Smith]


Clark A. Smith (poet, artist, sculptures and novelist), along with several Arkham House, authors, such as Richard L. Tierney; de Camp, Lin Carter, HP Lovecraft, Robert Howard, George Sterling, all poets, all short story writers, two generations of them, stepped onto what I call the Highway of the Dead. They wrote about horror, suspense, the demons that lurk, and fantasy—like E.R. Burroughs: on Mars or Venus. They mixed archeology with folklore, and outer space, shook it up, and out came adventures of Lumeria, and Atlantis, and the Cave series of women and men from before the time of Adam and Eve; and so here are two poems to the now, lost, Highway of the Dead, or perhaps to the third generation:

1) Clark A. Smith

[Sculptures and Art]

Snub-noses and thick of lips—
Slimy and thin (a man driven),
I always thought of, CAS’s art:
Goblet, human-feline features—,

Had its own, like his pose,
And poetry; akin to an Olmec god.

Note: Dedicated the CAS, and his love for the macabre, poems and art #1018 12/22/05

2) Crumbling Archeologist

Bones of cities lay about
With vines and stones and ferns and faults—
From jungles, deserts, shrines and pyramids,
From the seas, and restless ancient cities!...

From the winds: hiss the perishing of the ruins.
And what is left at the utter end—?
A snake, a bird, a goat and a hen…!

Note: the only thing stronger than my love of poetry is perhaps archeology; and perchance that is a toss up. So to the archeologist, I dedicate this poem: in particular, to my friend on Easter Island, Charlie Love.




3)To Clark A. Smith [Arriving in Hell]


When CAS, made his decent,
(Paid his toll, before he left—
Earth’s crust)
Proud he was when he appeared
At dock #666 Hell’s Northern Pier.

There stood Satan himself—
Opening the gates, “Drop the oars,”
He said, formal and brief: “You are
Amongst friends, the Dead, who
Never die, nor ever sleep…!” And
His ten-wings snapped insanely.

There was the Henchman, Agaliarept
Ruler of an army in Hell; he leaped to
His feet, held out his hand—saw the
Scorn on his face, said:
“Welcome, you are home my friend!”

His eyes—vile, a hoary-red; he
Stepped up onto the dock, over the
Ash-dark canopy (called a sky)
Saw Satan taking off his ten-winged
Ring, said: with a whisper to CAS:
“Wake thy eyes, and make me a
poem that will never die…!”

#1122 1/29/06

Note: Clark A. Smith, was of the old stock, yet he rose above his day, and went from Imagery poetry, such as George Sterling used, who was Smith’s teacher, and that of Robinson Jeffers, and Lovecraft, along with Baudelaire, to cosmic and fantasy. He perhaps went as deep, if not deeper than Poe. From symbolism to modernism; he did adjust to the times, but he also would not leave what was considered leaving the demonic roots of imaginative freedom Pure Poetry allowed.

I am sure if I had asked Mr. Smith, had the chance to edit this poem, he would perhaps have himself sitting down with Robert Howard, Lovecraft, and Satan himself, at a dinner table talking about verse, meter and other elements of poetry. And would tell me: I’m too soft with the imagery.