May 25, Third Age 3019
I write a poem and am very pleased with myself
I appear to have found my long-lost poetic talent - no, perhaps "talent" is going too far. Poetic inclination. Ambition. Aspiration. Something.
My poem has a rhyme scheme, something that vaguely resembles a meter, and a motif (hurrah!). The motif is really the heart of the poem; I wished to write a poem about the Shire, so I needed to describe her in a concise phrase that ended in an easily rhymed word, and thus I conceived of "West of the River, east of the Sea." And then I had this clever idea that I should vary it with each stanza- I will now stop enthusing about my brilliant process and write out the poem, minus all the messy edits.
Tucked away in the far northwest of Middle-earth
Is the Hobbits' quaint country, the land of my birth,
Where the joys found are simple and petty is strife:
My home, I thought, for a content, peaceful life.
The Shire, the Shire! beloved is she,
West of the Brandywine, east of the Sea.
But the world that I knew once is turned upside-down:
I carry the world's fate; I must not be found.
Pursued by a dark force, I fly here therefore,
To preserve the foothold where my feet stand no more.
The Shire, the Shire! no foothold for me,
Still west of the Shadow, yet east of the Sea.
Howe'er far I wander, my love will not fade
For each tree of my homeland, for each glen and glade;
So I'll press on through fear, and if need be, alone,
With my love, if my strength leaves, to topple the throne.
The Shire! from the cold Eastern wind one last lee,
Too far west to gaze, but still east of the Sea.
Too long under darkness, no mem'ry remains
Of the woods and little rivers, the fields and the plains
That lie golden somewhere in the afternoon's spell -
Thanks to Elbereth, far from my ash-ridden hell.
The Shire, the Shire! one place that stays free
Far west of my torment, just east of the Sea.
When all lands are delivered and darkness o'erthrown,
And King is the crownless, and rightful the throne;
When honor is given and battles are done,
I long just for a garden nurtured by sun.
The Shire, the Shire! I yearn now for thee,
Thou west of the River and east of the Sea.
Voilà. I was quite proud of it, so for the first time, I showed a poem to Gandalf, as Bilbo does with his numerous songs (though I neglected to tell Gandalf that my first poetic attempt was in fact a memorial tribute to him), and he seemed to rather like it. He commented on the motif, which I'm not sure if I've mentioned enough...
He said he wrote a poem with an end-of-stanza pattern once, when he was a pupil of the Valar (and something near a demigod, now that I think of it) in the West. I asked if he had a written copy he could lend me and he pulled it out of his voluminous sleeve. I will refrain from calling Gandalf the White a show-off. The paper read as follows:
I heard the wind's breath rush from mount Ever-white,
A painting of music and the music of light,
Swift eagles of thunder with the lightning that burned:
I beheld Manwë's might, and wonder I learned.
To the heavens I gazed at the gem-like starlight
That is kindled yet brighter in the darkest hour of night.
To these beacons of diamond have the earth-bound e'er turned:
I saw Varda's candles, and thus hope I learned.
The vast gray waves' rhythm I heard on the shore
That they ever have beaten and will beat ever more.
Here the rushing-foam rivers have always returned:
I watched Ulmo's ocean, and constance I learned.
From the earth spring all growing things, fertile and fair;
With a mother's embrace, taking all in her care,
From Earth's arms runs life and thence is returned:
I walked Yavanna's earth, and of giving I learned.
In the forge 'neath the mountains there lives the same love:
A delighting in beauty and the making thereof.
By skilled hands and nimble minds is pride in craft earned:
I watched Aulë's labors, and the joy of art learned.
In the shadowed Dead Houses walk the souls of the slain,
Where, with mem'ry of the whole world's injustice, remain
Ev'ry fate, that all deeds good or ill be returned:
Mandos' halls I beheld, and there justice I learned.
And there in these Houses countless storied webs are hung,
From memories woven, and heroes long sung.
Where nothing is forgotten since before the stars burned,
Vairë's tapestries I read; to remember I learned.
From the halls west of West, a lamenting song's strain
Mourns unnumbered hurts suffered, and cries untold pain.
But to wisdom can tears of selfless grief be turned:
I listened to Nienna's song, and pity I learned.
In the gardens of Lórien where the mighty find rest,
Sleep may bring peace to the turbulent breast;
For its healing oblivion have the tormented yearned:
As gray-clad Estë slept, serenity I learned.
And at rest, visions come to the sleep-shrouded mind,
Tendrils of the senses and thought left behind,
Divine wisdom as the depths of our own souls return;
From the dreams ruled by Irmo, to see did I learn.
O'er the hills and the valleys a great horn's call rang
As I listened; a warrior's herald it sang.
In his horn and his steed's hooves the wind's fire burned:
Oromë's hunt I watched, and his fierce joy I learned.
At the feet of the Ever-young I watched flowers grow;
As she sang, from the sleeping earth melted the snow -
At her call, from the winter, spring has ever returned:
I beheld Vána's dance, and renewal I learned.
In each moment that passes, the heart may find mirth
That looks not to the future for death or rebirth,
With a joy just to live, taking fate as it's turned:
Tulkas Valiant laughed, and laughter I learned.
To run light as air with the wind whistling by,
Like a shaft straight and true, to with wingéd feet fly,
With swift deer far outstripped and the bonds of earth spurned:
I watched Nessa run, and of freedom I learned.
When I had finished reading and was gazing at him openmouthed, trying to comprehend that I was sitting beside one who had spoken with the gods (and like a child proudly showing him and asking his approval of my attempts at poetry!) - that I was but two degrees of separation away from Ilúvatar Himself - Gandalf gently took the page back, with one of his warm, humorous, cryptic smiles on his lips. Hardly seeming to think about it, he wrote one last verse below the others:
But in the most timid Hobbit's heart, a deep-buried seed
Of unlikely courage takes root, hidden, 'til need
Awakes it; then may mighty counsels o'erturn:
'Twas from this, the humblest teacher, that belief did I learn.
and because of an odd block in my throat, I found myself suddenly unable to speak.
Elbereth knows I am still seeking for words.
Needless to say, Gandalf let me keep his poem, and he told me that mine was wonderful.
Author's Note: Wow. Poems are a format challenge. I'll have to improvise a bit to deal with it...whatever I do, it'll look a little different - just warning you in advance. OK, I lied - I said this wouldn't take as long as the last one, but I think it took longer. That's because I had no time and still don't have any time, but I'm making time for my pet fanfiction, so there. I hate my life. I wrote both poems (hurrah for me). Hope you liked my "degrees of separation" joke. Hehe. I also hope you recognize the "West of the ___, east of the Sea" phrase from ROTK; I'm not quoting it directly yet, but the poem is not finished. Just a bit of foreshadowing.
In other news, I've been trying to finish and post a Special Extended Edition (ooh, aah) of my most popular and just about least satisfactory work, "'Samwise Gamgee and the Ring'" (for people who haven't read it, the double quotes are intentional - the story title is a hypothetical story title). So stay tuned, but don't hold your breath, because once again I must reiterate that I have no time, I'm never satisfied with anything I write, and I hate my life. Also more stuff in the works, including some of what I have previously advertised and new ideas that keep showing their maniacal, leering faces in my head completely uninvited, the pesky little blighters.
I write a poem and am very pleased with myself
I appear to have found my long-lost poetic talent - no, perhaps "talent" is going too far. Poetic inclination. Ambition. Aspiration. Something.
My poem has a rhyme scheme, something that vaguely resembles a meter, and a motif (hurrah!). The motif is really the heart of the poem; I wished to write a poem about the Shire, so I needed to describe her in a concise phrase that ended in an easily rhymed word, and thus I conceived of "West of the River, east of the Sea." And then I had this clever idea that I should vary it with each stanza- I will now stop enthusing about my brilliant process and write out the poem, minus all the messy edits.
Tucked away in the far northwest of Middle-earth
Is the Hobbits' quaint country, the land of my birth,
Where the joys found are simple and petty is strife:
My home, I thought, for a content, peaceful life.
The Shire, the Shire! beloved is she,
West of the Brandywine, east of the Sea.
But the world that I knew once is turned upside-down:
I carry the world's fate; I must not be found.
Pursued by a dark force, I fly here therefore,
To preserve the foothold where my feet stand no more.
The Shire, the Shire! no foothold for me,
Still west of the Shadow, yet east of the Sea.
Howe'er far I wander, my love will not fade
For each tree of my homeland, for each glen and glade;
So I'll press on through fear, and if need be, alone,
With my love, if my strength leaves, to topple the throne.
The Shire! from the cold Eastern wind one last lee,
Too far west to gaze, but still east of the Sea.
Too long under darkness, no mem'ry remains
Of the woods and little rivers, the fields and the plains
That lie golden somewhere in the afternoon's spell -
Thanks to Elbereth, far from my ash-ridden hell.
The Shire, the Shire! one place that stays free
Far west of my torment, just east of the Sea.
When all lands are delivered and darkness o'erthrown,
And King is the crownless, and rightful the throne;
When honor is given and battles are done,
I long just for a garden nurtured by sun.
The Shire, the Shire! I yearn now for thee,
Thou west of the River and east of the Sea.
Voilà. I was quite proud of it, so for the first time, I showed a poem to Gandalf, as Bilbo does with his numerous songs (though I neglected to tell Gandalf that my first poetic attempt was in fact a memorial tribute to him), and he seemed to rather like it. He commented on the motif, which I'm not sure if I've mentioned enough...
He said he wrote a poem with an end-of-stanza pattern once, when he was a pupil of the Valar (and something near a demigod, now that I think of it) in the West. I asked if he had a written copy he could lend me and he pulled it out of his voluminous sleeve. I will refrain from calling Gandalf the White a show-off. The paper read as follows:
I heard the wind's breath rush from mount Ever-white,
A painting of music and the music of light,
Swift eagles of thunder with the lightning that burned:
I beheld Manwë's might, and wonder I learned.
To the heavens I gazed at the gem-like starlight
That is kindled yet brighter in the darkest hour of night.
To these beacons of diamond have the earth-bound e'er turned:
I saw Varda's candles, and thus hope I learned.
The vast gray waves' rhythm I heard on the shore
That they ever have beaten and will beat ever more.
Here the rushing-foam rivers have always returned:
I watched Ulmo's ocean, and constance I learned.
From the earth spring all growing things, fertile and fair;
With a mother's embrace, taking all in her care,
From Earth's arms runs life and thence is returned:
I walked Yavanna's earth, and of giving I learned.
In the forge 'neath the mountains there lives the same love:
A delighting in beauty and the making thereof.
By skilled hands and nimble minds is pride in craft earned:
I watched Aulë's labors, and the joy of art learned.
In the shadowed Dead Houses walk the souls of the slain,
Where, with mem'ry of the whole world's injustice, remain
Ev'ry fate, that all deeds good or ill be returned:
Mandos' halls I beheld, and there justice I learned.
And there in these Houses countless storied webs are hung,
From memories woven, and heroes long sung.
Where nothing is forgotten since before the stars burned,
Vairë's tapestries I read; to remember I learned.
From the halls west of West, a lamenting song's strain
Mourns unnumbered hurts suffered, and cries untold pain.
But to wisdom can tears of selfless grief be turned:
I listened to Nienna's song, and pity I learned.
In the gardens of Lórien where the mighty find rest,
Sleep may bring peace to the turbulent breast;
For its healing oblivion have the tormented yearned:
As gray-clad Estë slept, serenity I learned.
And at rest, visions come to the sleep-shrouded mind,
Tendrils of the senses and thought left behind,
Divine wisdom as the depths of our own souls return;
From the dreams ruled by Irmo, to see did I learn.
O'er the hills and the valleys a great horn's call rang
As I listened; a warrior's herald it sang.
In his horn and his steed's hooves the wind's fire burned:
Oromë's hunt I watched, and his fierce joy I learned.
At the feet of the Ever-young I watched flowers grow;
As she sang, from the sleeping earth melted the snow -
At her call, from the winter, spring has ever returned:
I beheld Vána's dance, and renewal I learned.
In each moment that passes, the heart may find mirth
That looks not to the future for death or rebirth,
With a joy just to live, taking fate as it's turned:
Tulkas Valiant laughed, and laughter I learned.
To run light as air with the wind whistling by,
Like a shaft straight and true, to with wingéd feet fly,
With swift deer far outstripped and the bonds of earth spurned:
I watched Nessa run, and of freedom I learned.
When I had finished reading and was gazing at him openmouthed, trying to comprehend that I was sitting beside one who had spoken with the gods (and like a child proudly showing him and asking his approval of my attempts at poetry!) - that I was but two degrees of separation away from Ilúvatar Himself - Gandalf gently took the page back, with one of his warm, humorous, cryptic smiles on his lips. Hardly seeming to think about it, he wrote one last verse below the others:
But in the most timid Hobbit's heart, a deep-buried seed
Of unlikely courage takes root, hidden, 'til need
Awakes it; then may mighty counsels o'erturn:
'Twas from this, the humblest teacher, that belief did I learn.
and because of an odd block in my throat, I found myself suddenly unable to speak.
Elbereth knows I am still seeking for words.
Needless to say, Gandalf let me keep his poem, and he told me that mine was wonderful.
Author's Note: Wow. Poems are a format challenge. I'll have to improvise a bit to deal with it...whatever I do, it'll look a little different - just warning you in advance. OK, I lied - I said this wouldn't take as long as the last one, but I think it took longer. That's because I had no time and still don't have any time, but I'm making time for my pet fanfiction, so there. I hate my life. I wrote both poems (hurrah for me). Hope you liked my "degrees of separation" joke. Hehe. I also hope you recognize the "West of the ___, east of the Sea" phrase from ROTK; I'm not quoting it directly yet, but the poem is not finished. Just a bit of foreshadowing.
In other news, I've been trying to finish and post a Special Extended Edition (ooh, aah) of my most popular and just about least satisfactory work, "'Samwise Gamgee and the Ring'" (for people who haven't read it, the double quotes are intentional - the story title is a hypothetical story title). So stay tuned, but don't hold your breath, because once again I must reiterate that I have no time, I'm never satisfied with anything I write, and I hate my life. Also more stuff in the works, including some of what I have previously advertised and new ideas that keep showing their maniacal, leering faces in my head completely uninvited, the pesky little blighters.