I loved Pooh as a child. Hated the Disney version, which seemed to have nothing to do with the Sheperd illos.

And yes, for some reason I'm thinking of Robert DeNiro here.

It was so juicy
a comment before that,
but now it seems sad.

Incidentally, the whole subject of the concealment of True Names in "Pooh" is one that would reward further examination. Note that neither Piglet, nor Pooh, nor Owl (nor, for that matter, Sauron*) allow their real names to be written. Pooh lives under the name of Sanders**. Piglet, as noted above, uses "Trespassers William" as an alias. Owl's door is marked WOL.
Treebeard also expresses surprise that hobbits are so ready to reveal their true names, and remarks that he, himself, would never do so. Perhaps this magical caution is common to entities with some affinity for woods; don't forget that Sauron himself regained his power at Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, before decamping to Mordor towards the end of the Third Age.

*The Fellowship of the Ring:
"S is for Sauron", said Gimli. "That is easy to read."
"Nay," said Legolas. "The Dark Lord does not use his true name, nor does he permit it to be spoken. Nor does he use white. The Orcs in the service of the Tower use the sign of the Red Eye."

** Winnie-the-Pooh:
"It means he had the name (Sanders) over the door in gold letters and Pooh lived under it."

Does Gollum hide his true name, or is it taken from him? I'm sure there is another whole thread's worth of tenuous scholarship* on this subject.

*Which reminds me of a line from the BBC show 'We are History':
'What does this tell us? Well, nothing actually, but if we combine this with spurious information and wild conjecture, a picture begins to emerge.'

Really, though, I didn't attempt it because Julie and Ajay have already perfectly rendered the thing.

O.
Ho,
Pooh.
Eh? Hope?
No hope.
Yep. None.
Lonely. No one
Sees. Helpless
To stop them. The eyes
Chose hopeless lost
Roo - poor Roo! - to
Do the deed. Then the cold
And deathly tentacles
Made haste to come and steal them, and the
Water, depthless and cold, drowned them all.
I alone remain to tell the tale. Typical.

"Sir! To Serge Man... It's a cook book!"

The Shadow Over Who-Ville

The Hive
The Bear in the Doorway
The Lurking Woozle
The Strange, High Pole in the North
The Shadow over Cottleston
Henry Pootel: Marsupialist

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping by
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse gives out a cry
As, trembling, he wonders why
We stop and eye the darkened lake
Whose foul odours make him shy.

He gives his harness bells a shake
Which proves to be a grave mistake
As from the water dark things creep
To drag our wagon toward the lake.

The woods are dreadful, dark and deep
And as he screams, and as I weep,
We rue we woke them from their sleep,
We rue we woke them from their sleep.

"It's an overlock sewing book!"

I have eaten
the HUNNY
which was in
your cupboard

and which
you were probably
saving
to bait a Heffalump trap

Forgive me
it was delicious
and it was just time
for a little something

And abi gets one too!

Much more of this and I'll run gibbering away in unholy madness!

Some say that it's the singing, the very singing with which we greet the returning sun, that provokes him; some say that without it he would not return them to us, dresdfully changed as they are.

But on one thing all agree: on the longest night, be sure to stock your larders well with all the danties you can procure; adorn your home as for a grand celebration. For if your lights and your wreaths and your meats and your cakes are sufficient, you'll wake (and oh, do not go out to see what makes the sounds you hear in that long night!) to find that they are gone, but that your children are still sleeping in their beds, not to be when the sun rises at last with strange lusts in their hearts no longer innocent. Provision yourself as well as you may, lest the Grinch--I tremble even to write the name!--steal more than Christmas.

Looking very warm, very dignified, with his legs in the air, came Gollum, floating upon the lava.

"It's Gollum!" cried Sam, terribly excited.

"Is that so?" said Gollum, getting caught up by a little methane bubble, and turning slowly round three times. "I wondered."

"I didn't know you were playing," said Sam.

"I'm not," said Gollum.

"Gollum, what are you doing there?" said Frodo.

"I'll give you three guesses, Frodo. Making Lembas sandwiches? Wrong. Leaping from branch to branch of a young Ent? Wrong. Sinking slowly into the burning lava of Mount Doom with my Precious? Right. Give Frodo time, and he'll always get the answer."

Or Tom's Cthulhu Fthagn, from the imagined Disney animated production of "The Call Of Cthulhu."

-- from Winnie the Beowulf

&

Busy Bee and dizzy Drone,
Are swarming round to sting me.
I fly ever nigh in the bright sky,
But still they cannot bring me!
Soaring leaf, clever hunny thief;
you are dim and busy.
You cannot sting me, buzzing chief,
In your swarmings dizzy.

I guess I finally have a use for my LiveJournal account: Pooh meets Tolkien meets Cthulhu.

-----
* Really. Zombie Rabbit kidnaps Roo to eat his brains is not family viewing.

Tekelli-li!

I'd like to say the restrictions there are due to certain...things...which are best left unspoken, but alas, I think it has more to do with snooty and officious rules enforced by snooty and officious security guards.

The wind was heavy on the wooded hill,
all creatures waited for the hungry bear
fearing the Great Old Beings darkest will.
Yet all the time, the Pooh without a care
ignored the squamous terrors and the fear
that caused even Eeyore to cast a shoe.
We find that now all nature is laid bare
still nothing can annoy the happy Pooh!

The Shadow poisons every stream and rill,
we sense a monstrous presence in the air.
There's no escape, not even poison pill
can keep us all from falling in the snare
where rugose horrors still await their share.
There's naught but evil that lies in our view,
not one of us will the Dark Power spare;
still nothing can annoy the happy Pooh!

Now falls to silence factory and mill,
there are no masses waiting in the square.
The Woods now dark and horrid creatures fill,
and Kanga, Roo and Piglet are past care.
The author screams that things just are not fair,
and thinks that he's announcing something new.
Through the long darkness must we all now fare;
still nothing can annoy the happy Pooh!

Prince Robin, riding on your spavined mare,
give us some thought as you your last meal spew.
Now all that's funny has become quite rare;
still nothing can annoy the happy Pooh!

(wrt True Names, let us not forget eoR, the Great Old Grey Donkey; also, when Christopher Robin went out and left a notice on his door, he signed it "Backson" although the others assumed that he was referring to an unknown companion: "Gone out, Backson. Bisy, Backson.")

(and as long as I've got my Milne compendium out...)

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Soaked with venous blood (blue) and arterial (red),
And all the day long he would wallow in goo
Of arterial (red) and venous blood (blue).

Rabbit's whiskered face appeared in an instant, delivered the unwelcome verdict "Which it's already gone!" and disappeared again, leaving behind only muttering concerning something of a very little brain - fortunately at a low enough volume that Pooh could pretend to not have heard. Indeed, Pooh looked down and saw the honey pot was indeed there and empty. "Bother."

A sudden decision, and he swung his rather round and soft body into the shrouds and climbed to the crow's nest. There, he took out his glass and surveyed the horizon. Was that a sail? A sail that might be attached to a French merchant vessel, its hold stuffed full of honey? The crew hadn't had a real prize in months and Pooh's fortune at home could desperately use such a stroke of good fortune.

"Tigger!" he bellowed to the deck far below. "Fetch me Dr. Robin!" For he instinctively knew that he would need his friend's advice before proceeding.

What makes this all the more funny is having spent most of the past three days playing Kingdom Hearts II (in which one of the side quests involves restoring stolen pages of "The House at Pooh Corner"). Now I know what happened to the characters while they were missing!

You all win an internets each! Available in a wide range of squamous and rugose colours.

By your command: Cthulhu's Wild Ride

- from "Northwest Pooh of the Spaceways"

You have just taught not to brush my teeth while reading a Making Light thread. Luckily I didn't spray the screen, but it's really amazing what laughing uproariously can do to the operation of an electric toothbrush.

Wow. That's amazing. My brain hurts now.

As is 47. And 54. And... oh, hell, it's all good stuff. It's getting pretty dark, though.

Hush! Hush!
Nobody cares -
Christopher Robin
Has
fallen
down
-stairs.
-- JB Morton

I would work on writing "They're Changing Form at Buckingham Palace" but I'm sure abi could do a much better job, plus I have deadlines.

-'Farewell my Hunny', Raymond Chandler

-- from The Pooh Also Rises

They're changing shape at Buckingham Palace -
Christopher Robin went down with Alice.
Horrible forms in every room -
"That's a harbinger of Impending Doom" -
Says Alice.

They're changing shape at Buckingham Palace.
Hideous eyes alight with malice
Glare from the windows on St James' Park.
"They'll hunt for victims after dark" -
Says Alice.

They're changing shape at Buckingham Palace.
Lunatic gods, both cruel and callous,
Howl and scream at the gibbous moon.
"They'll dominate the whole world soon" -
Says Alice.

-- From "When We Were Very Squamous" by H.P. Milne

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We saw a sentry turn into a fox.
"Those who go searching go mad from the shocks,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We looked for Cthulhu, but he never came.
"When he gets here he'll bring us the flame,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
The parties they give end in terrible sounds.
"Better not stay here, they'll let loose the Hounds,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
We saw a shape with myriad of wings.
"Don't know what it is, just one of those Things,"
Says Alice.

They're changing form at Buckingham Palace.
Christopher Robin has merged with Alice.
"What do you think has come out of the sea?"
"Don't know, dear, but it's coming for me,"
Says Alice.

All this talk of strange Things in the Palace reminds me slightly of Neil Gaiman's "A Study in Emerald"...

How doth the bubbling Yog-Sothoth
Improve its protoplasm,
And drink the bloody spuming froth
From thy last dying spasm!

How maddening its lights appear
How dread its pseudopods
As all who watch are taught to fear
The mighty Outer Gods!

-----
* plural of super, because both of them are.

- From "The Wizard of Ooze"

His face was octopoid and green,
and caused insanity when seen;
with rugose kin from heaven's field
and ichor-matter scarce-congealed.

But long ago he went away,
and what he dreameth none can say;
'til differently align the stars -
Cthulhu fhtagn! Ia!

Joel @70: Because I have not yet managed to assimilate this morning's caffeine, it took me a moment to identify the original, by which time my brain cell was already gibbering brief snatches of the unholy words which I here recount, almost against my will.

Cthulhu, the Great Old One,
Lived beneath the sea
And frolicked in Carcosa's mists
And the waves of Lake Hali

Sweet Lavinia Whatley
Loved that squamous heap[*]
And offered virgin sacrifice
Of herself, goats, and sheep.

[*: thus two-timing Yog-Sothoth from "The Dunwich Horror".]

Whisper with the whipporwills, and
mingle with the Mi-Go spawn,
Give my regards to old Cthulhu
and IA! from dusk to dawn!

Also, when will there be a book of published MakingLight poetry? And how come haven't abi's first three volumes already made it to the bookstore shelves???

I think we should call it "Music of the Fluorospheres".

-- From "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Cthulhu".

Shall I say the stars are right?
Do I dare record this speech?
I shall wear strange robes and symbols,
and walk upon the beach.
I shall hear the cultists chanting, each to each.
I do not think that they will chant for me.

I howled.

"No! Not the House of Pain!"

1) The fact that I stopped reading HP Lovecraft in college (when the stack of rugose Lovecraft volumes on the desk in my bedroom inspired in me the quivering fear that something unutterably squamous was going to ingest me in the dark of the night) is no reason not to reacquaint myself with the denizens of that place beyond the Mountains of Madness.

2) You people--by which I include TNH, PNH, associated posters, and commenters of every stripe--are incredibly talented and so cool I wish I knew you all in person so I could invite you over for cheesecake (which I hope will not be gibbous...).

3) I'm deficient in the extreme re: my understanding of poetical forms. Can anyone recommend a good introductory manual to same?

4) Good gravy--I completely missed Winnie the Pooh! (Although I did read Tonstant Weader's review of whichever Pooh book it was...and laughed hysterically.)

5) If "Music of the Fluorospheres" ever gets past the talking stages, I'll proofread it (I freelance) and waive my fee, just for the privilege of being associated with it.

6) I'm long-winded, even when I type...

From a fansite's faq: "The game takes place after her second adventure Through the Looking-Glass And what Alice Found There. A candle in Alice’s house is knocked to the floor by a cat and causes the house to catch fire - Alice luckily survives, but her parents die. Alice enters a deep state of catatonia and is institutionalised in an Asylum. After being in the asylum for several years, she responds to a mysterious summons to return to Wonderland, and the place is barely recognisable. Something has gone very wrong. Undaunted by the diseased atmosphere, confusion and mortal danger that surrounds her, Alice commits to restore Wonderland to its proper state, in hopes of regaining her sanity as well."

Someone has posted a godmode video capture of the game's final battle with the many-tentacled Red Queen here.

Shub-Niggurath's an Elder God, he's called the Eldritch Claw,
His blasphemous existence makes a mock of Nature's Law;
He's the bafflement of Arkham and his name is called Despair,
And if you say unguarded words - Shub-Niggurath is there!

Shub-Niggurath's a squamous god, he's mostly grey and black,
You would know him if you saw him, he's got wings upon his back.
His skin is warty and obscene, his maw is lined with fangs,
His face is indescribable, his hair in tendrils hangs.
He rises to bring ruin, when all the stars are right,
And though he's pretty vile by day, he's always worse at night.

Shub-Niggurath! Shub-Niggurath! There's nothing like Shub-Niggurath!
There never was a Thing whose rage was measured as a bigger wrath!
You may hide within the forest - you may run away to sea -
But when the stars are right, then it will do no good to flee!

ajay@83: ARGH!

How odd. I didn't know brain melted.

(fx:relurk)

This is the forest primeval, the towering ravenous creatures
eager to eat hapless humans, haters of the Great Spirit
dwell here in immense numbers, with qualities squamous and rugose.
Dark is the night in the forest, filled with insidious chatter
of beings dark and malignant, hungry for human heartstrings;
long time now they have dwelled here, inside the limitless darkness.
But now they are ready to travel, seeking the blood of the lawful.

Now a voice came to Nokomis, as she readied for a journey,
readied for a troubled journey, full of ignorance and hatred;
said the voice unto Nokomis, do not mention Hiawatha
to the beings of the darkness, to the dark and evil beings.
Hiawatha has to fear them, for they hunger for his beauty,
for Hiawatha's male beauty, do the ugly monsters hunger.
Dread now came upon Nokomis, and she sought to flee the hunger,
flee the hunger of the Shoggoths, deep in rainy Minnesota.

But the Shoggoths were unwearied, on they came for Hiawatha.
Far the hero fled through forest, through the dark forest primeval
never resting from his travels, for a halt would bring his death-blow.
Still the Shoggoth came unwearied, and the evil being Cthulhu
sent his many emanations, through the lakes of that cold forest
seeking to trap Hiawatha, trap the man and eat his spirit.
At last tired Hiawatha, turned to face the coming evils,
faced them with his angry beauty, but his anger was for nothing.
Soon the Shoggoths made their dinner, soon Shub-Niggurath had feasted,
and the vilest demon, Cthulhu, for his lunch had Hiawatha.

Sounds like a movie I'd like to see. Myrna and William (and a very young Dean Stockwell) in a Thin Man movie where they use their wits and many martinis to fight off Cthulhu.

Not quite OT, but probably teetering on the brink: Trois Freres (tip of stylish but insufficiently-protective headgear to ectoplasmosis and their weekly Cthulhu Cthursday)

3) I'm deficient in the extreme re: my understanding of poetical forms. Can anyone recommend a good introductory manual to same?

I was also so-deficient when I first came here. A few months of hanging out on open threads soon set me straight. :)

Still, this is the best guide to verse forms that I've ever read, with brilliant examples throughout (which almost rival the productions here). If you like the stuff here, you are bound to like it.

Odd coincidences:

I was reading this comment thread in bits and pieces while I waited for pages to load during the search quality rating work I do for Google. And lo, what search should come up but "whinnie the [ooh" (sick).

Perhaps the Old Ones are offended by Google's motto?

BTW, this thread has made me very glad to own an internets. Funniest thing I've read in ages. Damn talented poets.

>relurking>

Nick Nick
Garrison Garrison
Adoniram Southwick III
Took an unhealthy interest
In things that should never be.
Nick Nick
Said to his captain
"Captain" he said, said he,
"You must never go down to the Innsmouth docks
If you value your sanity."

Nick Nick
Garrison's captain
Harder than six inch nails
Nick Nick
Garrison's captain
Didn't believe the tales
Nick Nick
Garrison's captain
Said to himself, said he,
"I'll get that box from the Innsmouth docks,
and be back in time for tea."

Zadok
Fond of a story
Started to spread the word:
Of Nick Nick
Garrison's captain
Nothing had since been heard
Last seen
Wandering vaguely
Hiding his second wife
Something was lurking in Innsmouth now,
Zadok would stake his life:

"You - You -
Sprightly young feller -
I tell yer that ain't the wust!
Sit still -
See what I tell yer -
I'm tellin' yer, you's the first!
I ain't
never gone pryin' -
I faound it out jest the same:
What them
Fish-devils wanted -
Listen - I know their name!"

Zadok
All of a sudden
Let out a frightful scream:
"E - YAAAHHHH! ... YAAAAHHH!"
Clutched at my shoulder,
Eyes with a dreadful gleam.
"Get aout!
Get aout o' Innsmouth!
They're comin' agin - you'll see!"
And Zadok ran down to the end of the town
And wholly abandoned me.

Deep Ones!
Y'ha-nthlei!
This is what I recall.
And that
Horrible odour
In the Order of Dagon Hall.
Once I
Looked back behind me
As shapes emerged from the mist
"Ia-R'lyeh!"
"Cthulhu fhtagn!"
How can such things exist?

Oh, the grand old Duke of York
He had Ten Thousand Man
He Marched them Up To The Top of The Hill
And Crushed all the nations of the world and brought them under the rule of Satan our master.

(and)

This litle piggy went to Hades
This little piggy stayed home
this little piggy ate raw and steaming human flesh
this little piggy violated virgins
And this little piggy clambered over a heap of dead bodies to get to the top.

This is the Night Gaunt crossing the border,
Seizing the maid and the postman's daughter,
Terror for the rich, terror for the poor,
Inside the shadows behind the door,
Sweeping up Dunwich, A steady climb,
Leaving a trail of loathsome slime,
Past shoggoth shank and signs of elder,
Making a noise like a shantak gelder,
Chuckling silently as it passes
Silent miles of doom swept grasses.

Ghouls turn their heads as the flock approaches,
Staring from tombs as they chew on roaches,
Tindalos hounds cannot turn their course
They slumber beyond Euclid's force,
In the crypt they pass no human wakes,
But in strange aeons something quakes.

Night darkens, the climb is done,
Down towards Arkham they descend,
Towards the students wolfing down the tomes of lore
Towards the haunts of the lost, the flop houses,
Set in the dark town like gigantic jezebels,
All New England waits for them:
In the dark streets, beside the squamous-green river banks,
Things long for release.

Shrieks of thanks, Shrieks on the banks,
Shrieks of joy scare the girl and boy,
Respectful kills, defenestrations,
Ungodly couplings of relations,
And annunciations, Sussurations,
And timid victims desparations
And mongrels, mongrels from all the nations,
Claws insubstantial, cuts unfinanfcial,
Pictures with details you shouldn't enlarge in,
Tomes with dire warnings scribbled in margins,
Heirlooms from uncles, cousins and aunts,
Accompanied by curses, and unearthly chants,
Threats of revenge from Highlands and Lowlands
Notes from South Seas of disease,
Written in prose of every hue,
The purple, the black, the puce, the blue,
The insane, the half sane, the moaning the droning,
Inhumanly cold and Buzzily telephoning,
Cunning, base, terse and long
The carved, the dripped, to human eyes "wrong".

Thousands are still asleep
Dreaming of terifying monsters,
Or of summoned ones devouring the band at Cranston's or Crawford's
Defiled in working Kingsport, defiled in well set Arkham,
Asleep in basalt R'Lyeh,
He continues his dreams,
And shall awake soon, and longs for freedom,
And none will hear Cthulhu's call,
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who could dare to call himself forgotten?

Cthulhu Gone

Where, oh where has Cthulhu gone?
None of his lot remain alive
They packed up and they fled this world
In August 1945

Where, oh where are the Old Ones gone?
Scrambled back to their darkling lands
They have fled with a rare good sense
The lightnings held in human hands

Gods who followed their politics
Wagers on the changing Earth
Across the backs of the human breed
Never guessed what its brain was worth

From flint knives to the flintlock gun
Humans leaped while Cthulhu dreamed
Atoms cracked in another breath
The old god woke at once and screamed

Wise, oh wise were the gods who ran
Fleeing fast for the depths of space
Fiercer demons have come to stay
Human powers take their place

Down to the nethermost depths of hell
You will not find, warns the poet's verse
A shape more terrible than this
More packed with danger to the universe

It's a long way to sunken R'lyeh
It's a long way to go
It's a long way to sunken R'lyeh
And the Things Man Should Not Know
Goodbye, naïve science!
Farewell, sanity!
It's a long, long way to sunken R'lyeh
Ia ftagn! Aiee!

Sunken R'lyeh rose for me,
Sight I never hoped to see.

(old filksong, not mine)

It is saddened by the deep respect and admiration I nourish for you people in the deepest of my heart that I now find myself forced - dare I say coerced ? - to write you this letter with the express purpose of making light (oh... my... no pun intended, I assure you) of what happened this past few... hum... moments.
Earlier today, after I took the (filthy) Blight Beast of Krakow out for a walk, but before I cooked the Mexican Cocoa Chicken - whether after or before the summoning ritual I must confess I can not remember - I sent you a children story called "The fall of house Poosher²".
That story as yet to appear in the comment section, along with the other works of litterature posted by some luminaries coming from the four corners of the blogosphere (if I might dare such a violently non-euclidian geometric image), the witch of like I'd have been proud to see my name associated with by merit of my work.
It is then with righteous anger that I hereby vividly protest against what I can only assume to be plain and simple unfounded censorship, for I gather by way of analytical examination that my work was upheld because it mentioned Pooh frolicking with tentacles.
Hear my words: it is my profound belief that, despite all the propaganda coming from a nefarious Asian island which shall remain nameless, CHILDREN DESERVE TENTACLES ! I ask you, what better way to prepare their fragile, yet inquisitive minds to the hardships and vicissitudes of their coming adulthood than the image of a bear befriending a walking mass of appendages ? What better way to teach them tolerance and respect, as well as keep their sense of wonder alive ?
Beside, what do people hold against tentacles ? Those fluid ligns, the discreet elegance of their curvatures, the slightly abrasive firmness of their touch... I hum... excuse me... it appears circumstances demand that I work another ritual.

Back at you later, with all my respect.

MD "Po" Lovercraft

Don't worry, I'll be sure to punish the ghost writing for me upon my return - yes, he is a black man (that awful excuse of a joke - not to mention the poor taste - made me win the price for most uninspired attempt at billingual humor at the 94' Engineering Festival of Jouy-en-Josas. Thank you.)

Now, on to that ritual...

MD "Hun" Milned

"NO! PLEASE! LET ME -- AIIEEEEEEEeeee..."

Oh, Cthulhu
Sends the nightmares sweepin' through my brain
Where he stoops to eat
While the vile drums beat
And the mad flutes whine their old refrain

Oh, Cthulhu!
'Tis not dead that can eternal lie
In unnat'ral sleep
In the ocean deep:
In strange aeons, even death may die!

I know you must think I am mad
And you're probably right (ain't it sad?)

And when we sang
Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn!
We're only sayin'
You're on my mind, O Cthulhu!
O Cthulhu! I-A!

It's Cthulhu's MySpace* password. I'm removing it because we really don't want him and his mates coming after us for enabling identity theft.

-----
* What, you thought he was on Facebook or Livejournal?

And SuckedIn, and Shrieker.

Then again, I've been listening to Shoggoth on the Roof lately, so it's quite topical.

"If I were a Deep One..."