Author's
Note: It's been a while since I've written one of my odd
prose-poems, so here's a relatively longish one to make up for the
lapse. This one is dedicated to Dawn Felagund in commemoration of
her birthday, and deals with a narcissistic Fëanor and the
creation of his most famous works. Inspired by a slightly wacky
interpretation of the relevant passage of the Silm:
Yet
that crystal was to the Silmarils but as the body to the Children of
Ilúvatar: the house of its inner fire, that is within it and
yet in all parts of it, and is its life. ... The heart of Fëanor
was fast bound to these things that he himself had made.
--From
"Of the Silmarils", The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien
Disclaimer: Not mine, of course. But you knew that already.
Trifles
were
all they were meant
to
be at first;
mere
baubles to pass the
time
and amuse
myself
with some small craft.
I
began with three crystals
devised
from diamond and
lightning;
shaped them
on
the forge until
they
glittered, small stars
among
the ashes;
gave
them delicate shape with
my
hammers and
my skill.
Three
jewels:
lovely,
radiant, perfect;
Mahtan
smiled
when
he saw them
and
praised my skillful hand:
that
was not what
I
wanted.
So I
took their glory
and
improved upon it:
a
hint of shine here,
a
bit of complexity there,
coaxed
into them the light
of
the Trees,
and
bound them
in
crystal more pure
than
any eyes but
mine had yet
seen.
Three
jewels:
brilliant,
shining, perfect;
Nerdanel
was silent,
reaching
out a to touch them and
me, she
looked up with wonder:
that
was not what
I
wanted.
So I
took their perfection
and
improved upon it:
a
bit of passion here,
a
hint of hatred there, and
I wrapped them in
my
own spirit:
my
fire thus tempered them
into
the zenith of what
has
yet been achieved
in
this world.
Three
jewels
(and
more than jewels:
myself):
glorious,
matchless, perfect;
my
father looked upon them
and
wept,
and
turned his eyes aside; thus
I knew
my jewels were
complete.
Mere
trifles, yes;
but
they contain
me, and
I am
worlds.