063022e

I have tried off and on for years to capture the essence of Lovecraft's "At the Mountains of Madness," his only novel, and one of his best stories, in verse. I've had little success. This latest attempt, a rengay, isn't good enough either. I might be getting closer.


The Unknown Dead


dead city
released by melting ice
cyclopean blocks

five-fold symmetry
subterranean carvings

mile after mile
broad tunnels descend
bas-relief history

smoothed shore
of the phosphorescent sea
oily bubbles break

the sting of ozone
pallid colossus

we run
foul wind from below howls
te-ke-li-li