This poem was a present to me from my father for my April birthday. He says that he wrote the poem for all of the people who wondered what happened to the society of wizards alluded to in "The Hobbit," and for those readers who only read (or saw the movies) "The Lord Of The Rings" and assumed that Middle Earth only had two wizards in it. …Well, as magical professionals go, it turns out that they were a pretty irresolute lot and Tolkien apparently decided that they weren't worth mentioning. That omission is corrected herein, in "The Wizard's Saga". We hope that you enjoy this poetic piece. If reaction is favorable to this item, my dad promises to advance work on a piece entitled "Defusing The Mythical Aura Of Tom Bombadil". Thanks in advance for your collective opinions…
Disclaimer: Neither of us owns Lord of the Rings, as it is copyrighted to the Tolkein family. My dad owns this poem. Sorta.
The Wizard's Saga
A Tale Of Alternate Intentions During The Third Age
We are the conclave of Middle Earth wizards:
The quiet ones whom Master Tolkien ignores.
We who met whilst Bilbo spanned Mirkwood,
and weighed grey counsel,
as Mage Gandalf implored.
But we of the brown and the blue and the green,
And the yellow and the other wizardly hues,
could come to no resolution with white or grey,
and no firm, united, stand could we choose.
And so history advanced in an orc-oozing tide,
while we of the wood, of the lakes, of the beasts,
and the rivers and the hills faded to ride out the storm:
Thus when powers were rallied, we tallied the least.
But we were there, oh all along,
Though tales focus famously on the firm stand of magic,
as Rivendell and Lothlorien stood fast 'neath charmed shield;
their own elven lords staving off deeds most tragic.
And we were there, oh all along,
whilst dwarves hid their treasures, or died in defense,
as goblin-kind, by rude iron claimed,
all lands high or deep,
claiming all spoils, hence.
And we were there while men fought men,
Though, naturally, we yet held aloof,
And kind killed kind, as noble truth redefined:
Yet, dying as good or bad,
death required no proof.
The trees felt the bite of Little S's betrayal
and burned or cried out in dumb decay,
but other woods yet harbored a grain of spirit,
so we thought to act some other day.
Yes, we sagely sat on our rune-graven boulders,
strolled through our dales, and contemplated the glade's rivulet flow.
We pondered in great wisdom how the world would turn,
While the darkness, most darkly, continued to grow.
Oh ominous fates, if light fades, what then?
Should this final, late union of Just Might fail,
in gathering strength of men, dwarves and elves:
What then of wizard-kind, should such evil prevail?
No rings of power have we to wield:
Some native strength, some mage-based skill.
Our roots are elemental earth,
and air and water – as with Tom Bombadil.
"Say Tom," we spoke, when we sought his advice.
"What of the world, and the tale thus painted?
"Is a win or a compromise in the cards with Lord Sauron?"
To which he shrugged, saying; "I'll be last to be tainted."
Oh woe to us, as un-united with him
(as we hid safe amongst our fuzzy self-denial),
as we are, each as within our own wizardly fellowship:
Entranced by our own too-clever guile.
And inexorably into the eclipse,
our once-cozy Middle Earth moves on.
And whatever deeds the minstrels will sing,
we'll, sadly, have no place in their song.
And, well, t'is finally too much for men of good intent,
to forever foreswear responsibility.
Comes time when might must shine or fade;
when power is sham, damn, or golden creativity.
So against the sinister sibilant surge,
the sordid tide of Smaug, Saruman and Sauron,
we were too late to tackle the sizzling worm. And Little S,
well, he seems to have somehow met defeat,
without our skill even relied upon!
But at last we lesser wizard folk,
not white, nor grey, but middling sages,
stewards, not of cities, but of spirit and element,
decided to strike our potent blow for the third of ages.
We've reached our decision, more or less,
that that Sauron dude is a nasty guy,
so to redress our laggard and timid ways,
we've decided we'll poke him in the eye.
We've heard vision-tales of the Palantirs,
fiery light, intense, as soul-stripping probes,
ever searching, seeking, his vile ring of gold,
and, we suspect, sneaking a peek up our robes.
There is no limit to his depth of depravity,
no vestige of principle or common scruple.
He's scarred and consumed by an evil so pure
that the power is master and he be the pupil.
Frodo, Shireling, carries the ring. We have this for a fact.
But he's wandering so lost, we suspect it's a ruse,
with this prominent quest a desperate excuse,
until the Steward or Gandalf can beg up some truce.
So… there were horsemen over yonder, bottled up in the Deep.
And north and deeper, echoed dead-balrog despair.
There's a mountain of ghosts chained by ancient promise,
and hobbits snacking at home without a cognizant care.
Yes, it's about time we accomplished our gesture most grand.
We shall do, or perish, there's no place to hide.
An optometrist of Gondor has revealed a plan,
and we'll heroically craft something to turn this shadowed tide.
So for weeks, we made our perilous way,
for there now is no excuse to linger,
and we work along the east-boundary bog,
where with magical wiles, we'll forge our finger.
A giant finger is our intent;
we tried before, but the attempt did fail.
The spells in our trial held some ugly flaw,
and our digit had a prodigious hangnail.
But water and moss and peat will do best:
All elementals of the organic necromancer.
To fashion a poker for a flaming orb,
and to snuff from the land this evil cancer.
And now we work in determined unison.
We're set firm in our direction!
And should we not darken the Dark Lord's view,
at least we'll give him a nasty infection.
We heard the doings at Rivendell,
when the Fellowship first gathered to act.
But for this threat facing all Middle Earth,
some thought of another tact.
"Why can't the eagles just fly to Mordor,
and bomb Mt. Doom at night?"
And, in fact, the ring might have gone thus,
if we hadn't pre-booked every flight.
For the eagles seemed a flexible power,
good for our own strategic reserve;
so we paid them to hoist our finger aloft:
…When our conclave builds up its nerve.
So they flew in circles on a subsidy,
while debate progressed and plan matured,
until finally we were on our way,
the recipe developed; the spells ensured.
Frodo passed through the neighborhood,
(so our good spy-creatures relate),
but he moved on some time ago,
having no toll for the Black Gate.
And meanwhile, the Big S has been distracted by much,
with more than The One Ring to rue.
His son, Mouron, went on a field trip,
and didn't return from the zoo.
His special class went, one and all,
to torment the pitiful creatures;
but in Mordor zoo it fully pays
to not examine too closely, their features.
But being evil and well-connected,
there were none with courage to inhibit,
his ill-conceived whim to wander towards
the Giant Spider exhibit.
And perhaps someday we'll learn his fate,
when returneth new days of splendor.
In savory deference of his youthful days,
we hope it was only his years that were tender.
But here and now our digit of destiny is fairly done,
excepting affairs pharmaceutical.
We've dispatched some wizards to the local drug store
to buy tools to trim both nail and cuticle.
Alas, while we wait, we mourn the demise
of a last alternate plan we'd tried.
To obtain final word of our foe's true strength,
we snuck two of our allies inside.
Now, on the almost-eve of our master plan,
Kronheim and Oldenbush have perished,
Two of our highly regarded advisors,
who in disaster, or tax-time, were cherished.
We air-dropped them to gather facts,
there, east of Barad-dur:
Our specialist in Orc-tax law,
and our expert to insure.
He, most learned in law, sought Mordor's chief,
to review losses through stock volatility,
but deductible limits was not a subject
for the lord of lie ability.
Kronheim tried to drum up business,
but his potential clientele was wary.
He was last seen looking up the word "manflesh"
in his lawyer's dictionary.
Oldenbush, insurance salesman superb,
thought he had a pretty good stake.
He figured Sauron, abutting a volcano,
would need insurance against earthquake.
Unfortunately, they didn't see eye to eye,
not even for partial dismemberment;
so Oldenbush went and wandered south,
pushing annuities for Eastron retirement.
But his premium installments interested none,
and his spying eventually put
him in traffic with no-fault oliphants,
who placed him under foot.
And now we here could finish our task,
with a final bold buffing for poise.
Yes, we'd concentrate on the final touches,
except for the awful noise.
That damn mountain is lighting the sky,
and all the clouds are red.
That smoke just can't be good for us,
and the roar could wake the dead.
So we're all going to take some aspirin,
and continue this next week.
We've sent a bunch of eagles south,
just to take a useful peek.
And our supreme plan, bards someday will note,
will be a monument to what we have given.
We who collectively intend soon to proactively act,
can never be accused
of indecision.
Well, don't forget to leave reviews. My dad really wants to know what you guys think of this!