I can't help but root for the underdog. I
guess that's why I love Faramir. He's such a gentle, compassionate
person, yet his father doesn't seem to appreciate him at all. My last
poem sided with the dad, but in this father-child relationship my
sympathies lie with the son. Faramir will always be my favorite human
in Lord of the Rings.
Humility
Faramir. A docile man, a scholar and a dreamer,
A Hobbit sympathizer grim but gentle.
A loyal son, but not a master military schemer,
Not built for battles dire and monumental.
There’s more of Elf and Hobbit about him than mortal man.
With little use for glory, gain and power,
He’d rather spend his afternoons in peaceful, verdant lands
Than lead the charge in Gondor’s darkest hour.
But though he is unsuited, he’s his kingdom’s final hope,
So play the role of warrior he must,
Deterred not by the enemy and its enormous scope
Or by his father’s obvious distrust.
He knows that he forever will live under the shadow
Of Boromir, his favored older brother.
He’s haunted by the knowledge, undeniable and sad.
This truth torments him more than any other.
And yet he does not compromise his own integrity
For Denethor, demented would-be king.
His senses are unclouded and his eyes can clearly see
The danger that’s inherent in the Ring.
He must lead his troops to battle, where they will fight and fall,
As hopelessly outnumbered as they are.
This tactical advantage, this gift could save them all
And win love that’s eluded him so far.
It would be all too easy to seize the Ring of gold,
But he resists, and Middle-earth survives.
With dignity and honor, he’ll gracefully grow old
While Gondor, draped again in glory, thrives.
All will hail the mighty king and little laud the steward
Standing on the sidelines, calm and quiet.
But Faramir’s a hero, and he saved Middle-earth too –
Though if somebody said so, he’d deny it.
Thursday, February 2, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
On This Mountain
So it's been a while since a wrote a
Tolkien-inspired poem, and I decided it was about time. I finally broke
down today and bought myself the Lord of the Rings poster
calendar, and the picture for January is what is quite possibly the most
beautiful image in the whole trilogy: Sam carrying Frodo up Mount Doom,
a la the Pieta. Looking at it, I could hear the instrumental strains
of Into the West rising up. Beautiful. So that was the scene I tackled in the following poem. Hope you like it.
On This Mountain
There is danger on this mountain,
Where the air is foul and fell
Far above the lava fountain
Where no decency can dwell.
Frodo’s gentle eyes are clouded,
And he can’t recall the Shire,
For his faculties are shrouded
In ferocity and fire.
There is naught to taste but ashes.
Little memory remains
Of Hobbiton’s wholesome hashes
Or its berries ripe with rain.
All its idylls and its greenness
Are desperately far away,
And the world is full of meanness
And distortion and decay.
Yet with all the gloom around him,
Samwise stubbornly remembers.
Dim despair has not yet found him
In the darkness and the embers.
With a pain profound and piercing,
Samwise watches his friend fade,
And his passion makes him fierce
As he finds strength to bring him aid.
“I can carry you!” he roars.
With a focus undefiled,
Sam plucks Frodo from the floor
And cradles him like a child.
Every step is slow and steady.
As the Cracks of Doom draw near,
Defiance renders him ready.
He is numb to any fear.
And this scene so grim and gritty,
So engorged with grief and grime,
Evokes feelings not of pity
But of glory as he climbs.
Now the Shire is not so distant,
Nor its beauty out of view.
Sam reclaimed it in an instant
With, “But I can carry you.”
On This Mountain
There is danger on this mountain,
Where the air is foul and fell
Far above the lava fountain
Where no decency can dwell.
Frodo’s gentle eyes are clouded,
And he can’t recall the Shire,
For his faculties are shrouded
In ferocity and fire.
There is naught to taste but ashes.
Little memory remains
Of Hobbiton’s wholesome hashes
Or its berries ripe with rain.
All its idylls and its greenness
Are desperately far away,
And the world is full of meanness
And distortion and decay.
Yet with all the gloom around him,
Samwise stubbornly remembers.
Dim despair has not yet found him
In the darkness and the embers.
With a pain profound and piercing,
Samwise watches his friend fade,
And his passion makes him fierce
As he finds strength to bring him aid.
“I can carry you!” he roars.
With a focus undefiled,
Sam plucks Frodo from the floor
And cradles him like a child.
Every step is slow and steady.
As the Cracks of Doom draw near,
Defiance renders him ready.
He is numb to any fear.
And this scene so grim and gritty,
So engorged with grief and grime,
Evokes feelings not of pity
But of glory as he climbs.
Now the Shire is not so distant,
Nor its beauty out of view.
Sam reclaimed it in an instant
With, “But I can carry you.”
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Forgotten
One thing that really bugs me in fiction is
killing off scores of people and expecting the audience not to
particularly care. As long as the good guy triumphs, everything's all
right. But every person has value. Furthermore, for every loudly
lauded, conquering hero, there are plenty of folks behind the scenes who
never get any attention but are vital in helping the goal to be
achieved. I like to look for underdogs, for people in fiction and real
life who are not given the appreciation they deserve.
Fatty Bolger strikes me as this sort of person. We don't know much about him, but we do know that he is a faithful friend of the four hobbits who set out from the Shire and that he has an important and frightening task of his own to perform. This is not the reckoning of his adventure, so we don't get to hear much about what he went through, and it seems his contributions would probably have been unnoticed by everyone within the world of the story, hopefully with the exception of his four furry-footed friends. Everybody always forgets poor Fatty. This is my attempt to lift him from obscurity. Every life counts, even in fiction.
Forgotten
It seems the Shire is duller now.
The greens are turning gray.
A shiver and a furrowed brow
Give Fatty’s fear away.
The faithful fellow Fredegar,
Abandoned by the pack,
Wonders if they have traveled far
And when they’re coming back.
He is not bitter. No, indeed,
He offered to remain,
Fulfilling quite a vital need.
But still, he is in pain.
What if his comrades have been caught
In peril grave and grim,
And what if – horrifying thought! –
They have forgotten him?
Do they remember their old chum,
A gentle soul and kind
Who’s seen so many troubles come
Since he was left behind?
No longer does his nickname fit.
His worry’s worn him thin.
But he won’t make a break for it
And let the darkness in.
He will get none of the glory,
The honor and the fame.
When they tell the epic story,
Few will recall his name.
Most folks will never know the role
The brave young Bolger played,
But pride and peace will fill his soul,
For he’s the one who stayed.
Fatty Bolger strikes me as this sort of person. We don't know much about him, but we do know that he is a faithful friend of the four hobbits who set out from the Shire and that he has an important and frightening task of his own to perform. This is not the reckoning of his adventure, so we don't get to hear much about what he went through, and it seems his contributions would probably have been unnoticed by everyone within the world of the story, hopefully with the exception of his four furry-footed friends. Everybody always forgets poor Fatty. This is my attempt to lift him from obscurity. Every life counts, even in fiction.
Forgotten
It seems the Shire is duller now.
The greens are turning gray.
A shiver and a furrowed brow
Give Fatty’s fear away.
The faithful fellow Fredegar,
Abandoned by the pack,
Wonders if they have traveled far
And when they’re coming back.
He is not bitter. No, indeed,
He offered to remain,
Fulfilling quite a vital need.
But still, he is in pain.
What if his comrades have been caught
In peril grave and grim,
And what if – horrifying thought! –
They have forgotten him?
Do they remember their old chum,
A gentle soul and kind
Who’s seen so many troubles come
Since he was left behind?
No longer does his nickname fit.
His worry’s worn him thin.
But he won’t make a break for it
And let the darkness in.
He will get none of the glory,
The honor and the fame.
When they tell the epic story,
Few will recall his name.
Most folks will never know the role
The brave young Bolger played,
But pride and peace will fill his soul,
For he’s the one who stayed.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Child of the Kindly West
I've been writing a lot of Tolkien-inspired poetry lately, but most of it has stemmed from Lord of the Rings. I fell in love with The Hobbit first, so it seems as though I should give Bilbo at least as much attention as Sam. So here's a poem rooted entirely in The Hobbit,
revolving around the epithet so poetically applied to Baggins the
burglar. Such was Tolkien's facility with language that the simple
stringing together of five words has the power to make me misty-eyed.
To one who deserves the description, from one who endeavors to earn it.
Child of the Kindly West
“Child of the kindly West.”
That’s what Thorin called him
Before he faded to his rest.
The tragedy appalled him.
They finally saw eye to eye;
They finally were friends.
How could he be allowed to die?
It was too soon an end.
The Dwarven lord had hated him
Through most of their long trip.
He’d constantly berated him
And made his spirits dip.
But Bilbo had intrinsic worth,
Which Thorin realized
Before his soul departed Earth.
Perhaps he was surprised.
Perhaps he harbored some remorse
Because glory and gold
Had set his life’s opulent course,
Obscuring joys untold.
Perhaps in hours before his death,
He dreamed of innocence,
Of fresh air gulped in giant breaths,
Of green lands with no fence.
Perhaps he dreamed of songs to sing
And picnics in the sun,
Of savoring the simple things
Before his life was done.
Reflecting thus, Bilbo could see
How his life had been blessed
And that he must forever be
“Child of the kindly West.”
Child of the Kindly West
“Child of the kindly West.”
That’s what Thorin called him
Before he faded to his rest.
The tragedy appalled him.
They finally saw eye to eye;
They finally were friends.
How could he be allowed to die?
It was too soon an end.
The Dwarven lord had hated him
Through most of their long trip.
He’d constantly berated him
And made his spirits dip.
But Bilbo had intrinsic worth,
Which Thorin realized
Before his soul departed Earth.
Perhaps he was surprised.
Perhaps he harbored some remorse
Because glory and gold
Had set his life’s opulent course,
Obscuring joys untold.
Perhaps in hours before his death,
He dreamed of innocence,
Of fresh air gulped in giant breaths,
Of green lands with no fence.
Perhaps he dreamed of songs to sing
And picnics in the sun,
Of savoring the simple things
Before his life was done.
Reflecting thus, Bilbo could see
How his life had been blessed
And that he must forever be
“Child of the kindly West.”
Friday, October 14, 2005
Taters
Today, when I set out to write another poem, I
said to myself, "I shall now write a poem that has nothing to do with
Samwise Gamgee." So of course the first word of said poem turned out to
be "Sam." I'm so good at following my own instructions. I actually
have three entirely non-Sam-related Tolkien poems that I have yet to
post, but those that feature him seem to possess a certain spark the
others lack. The magic of Sam. Oh, well. Sam takes over again. Worse
things have happened.
Warning: This poem may or may not have been unduly influenced by an Exceptionally Irritating video that can be found here: http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/taters .
Taters
Sam is in the habit
Of cooking his dinner.
Forced to eat raw rabbit,
He would get much thinner.
Smeagol hasn’t tasted
Cooked food in so long,
He feels his meal’s wasted.
Sam’s doing it all wrong.
“Some taters would be nice,”
Sam mutters thoughtfully.
A splash of old Shire spice
Would help tremendously.
Gangly and unkempt,
Smeagol the Sam-hater
Hisses with contempt,
“Eh? What’s that? What’s taters?”
“Potatoes. Boil ‘em, mash
‘Em, stick ‘em in a stew,”
Sam says. “No one could pass
That up, not even you.”
“Oh, yes we could!” spits Smeagol,
Determined to be rude.
Let’s strangle him like Deagol.
Let’s break him like his food.
Sam can’t hear Smeagol’s threats,
But he senses them still.
If Frodo would just let
Him move in for the kill...
The fierceness of his blow
Would strike the Stinker down.
The Slinker, too, would go.
Sam eyes him with a frown.
Poor Frodo wearily
Is haunted by the hunch
That in the future, he
Should be in charge of lunch.
Warning: This poem may or may not have been unduly influenced by an Exceptionally Irritating video that can be found here: http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/taters .
Taters
Sam is in the habit
Of cooking his dinner.
Forced to eat raw rabbit,
He would get much thinner.
Smeagol hasn’t tasted
Cooked food in so long,
He feels his meal’s wasted.
Sam’s doing it all wrong.
“Some taters would be nice,”
Sam mutters thoughtfully.
A splash of old Shire spice
Would help tremendously.
Gangly and unkempt,
Smeagol the Sam-hater
Hisses with contempt,
“Eh? What’s that? What’s taters?”
“Potatoes. Boil ‘em, mash
‘Em, stick ‘em in a stew,”
Sam says. “No one could pass
That up, not even you.”
“Oh, yes we could!” spits Smeagol,
Determined to be rude.
Let’s strangle him like Deagol.
Let’s break him like his food.
Sam can’t hear Smeagol’s threats,
But he senses them still.
If Frodo would just let
Him move in for the kill...
The fierceness of his blow
Would strike the Stinker down.
The Slinker, too, would go.
Sam eyes him with a frown.
Poor Frodo wearily
Is haunted by the hunch
That in the future, he
Should be in charge of lunch.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Her Sam
I have so many reviews to write and so little
time in which to write them. Hopefully I'll have a couple more soon,
but till then, I'll tide you over with another Tolkien poem. That's
practically all I've been writing lately. The floodgates have opened! I
adore Sam Gamgee. Generally not so crazy about Rosie, only because I'm
jealous. Or because their relationship seemed far less developed than
Sam and Frodo's.
But in reality, it wasn't. Set aside the movie version, in which Rosie's a barmaid who Sam has a crush on and can't get up the nerve to ask out until after he's returned from his quest. Please. Okay, there's some element of sweetness to that, but it goes back to everything that was wrong about Sam in the movie. He was not a wimp by any means, and he certainly would not have been afraid of Rosie. The way I read it, though she's mentioned very little, Rosie was his best friend. Their being together was as simple and beautiful and natural as everything about Sam, and Tolkien himself had the following to say:
"I think the simple 'rustic' love of Sam and his Rosie (nowhere elaborated) is absolutely essential to the study of his (the chief hero's) character, and to the theme of the relation of ordinary life (breathing, eating, working, begetting) and quests, sacrifice, causes, and the 'longing for Elves', and sheer beauty."
I am also drawn to this passage by L. M. Montgomery, describing a critical revelatory moment in one of my favorite fictional romances:
"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; Perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; Perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; Perhaps...perhaps...love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath."
There's nothing really to back up the idea, presented in my poem, of Rosie having multiple suitors. I imagine her actually as quite a homely lass. But I like the idea of her turning down the brightest and best in the land for her closest comrade, a simple, chubby, unremarkable gardener. Even if nobody else ever did express an interest in her, I am convinced that if they did, she would not have given them a second thought. Here's to true love in your own backyard.
Her Sam
Lovely Rosie, sweet as posies,
Cheerful, always charming.
Some hobbits might find just the sight
Of this lass disarming.
Fetching water, Tolman’s daughter
Also fetches gazes
From the fellows. Mild and mellow,
Rosie’s poise amazes.
Some are handsome. Some would ransom
Riches just for her hand.
Some are quite strong or strut along
As if they owned the land.
Some are clever. Rosie never
Treats them impolitely,
And yet their schemes touch not the dreams
She lingers over nightly.
She is bereft. Why her Sam left
She may not ever learn,
But still she copes with prayers and hopes
That he will soon return.
His pudgy frame will be the same,
His gentleness unchanged.
Perhaps he’ll bring a wedding ring
From someplace far and strange.
They’ll take a bow and seal their vow
Tenderly, with a kiss.
With joyful hearts, the two will start
A life of wedded bliss.
The games they played in golden glade
When they were very young
Will live again, and in the den
Splendid songs will be sung.
And in due time, the tots will climb
On Dad’s lap for a story,
And he will tell his tale so well,
Its sadness and its glory.
She’ll take her seat next to the feet
Of him whom she adores.
Her eyes ashine, she’ll think, “He’s mine,
And I loved him before.”
But in reality, it wasn't. Set aside the movie version, in which Rosie's a barmaid who Sam has a crush on and can't get up the nerve to ask out until after he's returned from his quest. Please. Okay, there's some element of sweetness to that, but it goes back to everything that was wrong about Sam in the movie. He was not a wimp by any means, and he certainly would not have been afraid of Rosie. The way I read it, though she's mentioned very little, Rosie was his best friend. Their being together was as simple and beautiful and natural as everything about Sam, and Tolkien himself had the following to say:
"I think the simple 'rustic' love of Sam and his Rosie (nowhere elaborated) is absolutely essential to the study of his (the chief hero's) character, and to the theme of the relation of ordinary life (breathing, eating, working, begetting) and quests, sacrifice, causes, and the 'longing for Elves', and sheer beauty."
I am also drawn to this passage by L. M. Montgomery, describing a critical revelatory moment in one of my favorite fictional romances:
"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; Perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; Perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; Perhaps...perhaps...love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath."
There's nothing really to back up the idea, presented in my poem, of Rosie having multiple suitors. I imagine her actually as quite a homely lass. But I like the idea of her turning down the brightest and best in the land for her closest comrade, a simple, chubby, unremarkable gardener. Even if nobody else ever did express an interest in her, I am convinced that if they did, she would not have given them a second thought. Here's to true love in your own backyard.
Her Sam
Lovely Rosie, sweet as posies,
Cheerful, always charming.
Some hobbits might find just the sight
Of this lass disarming.
Fetching water, Tolman’s daughter
Also fetches gazes
From the fellows. Mild and mellow,
Rosie’s poise amazes.
Some are handsome. Some would ransom
Riches just for her hand.
Some are quite strong or strut along
As if they owned the land.
Some are clever. Rosie never
Treats them impolitely,
And yet their schemes touch not the dreams
She lingers over nightly.
She is bereft. Why her Sam left
She may not ever learn,
But still she copes with prayers and hopes
That he will soon return.
His pudgy frame will be the same,
His gentleness unchanged.
Perhaps he’ll bring a wedding ring
From someplace far and strange.
They’ll take a bow and seal their vow
Tenderly, with a kiss.
With joyful hearts, the two will start
A life of wedded bliss.
The games they played in golden glade
When they were very young
Will live again, and in the den
Splendid songs will be sung.
And in due time, the tots will climb
On Dad’s lap for a story,
And he will tell his tale so well,
Its sadness and its glory.
She’ll take her seat next to the feet
Of him whom she adores.
Her eyes ashine, she’ll think, “He’s mine,
And I loved him before.”
Monday, October 10, 2005
Fool of a Took
Sam is my favorite of the quartet of hobbits in Lord of the Rings,
but Pippin is a fairly close second. In the films, I was surprised to
find that the scamp managed to supersede Sam for first place in my
heart. Sam will always be number one, but in the Tolkien According to
Jackson, I'm afraid Pippin wins out most of the time. So I had to write
about him sometime. Actually, I found a poem I wrote about him my
freshman year in high school, for a project, but from my vantage point
now it seems most unsatisfactory. This one is only a few days old and
hopefully better - and the first of several. In it, Gandalf, at some
point after his and Pippin's arrival in Gondor, ruminates about his
foolish young companion. Enjoy!
Fool of a Took
I don’t know what to do with him, this nuisance of a halfling
Who’s proven to be nothing but a pest
Throughout our short acquaintance. Looking back, I find it baffling
I concurred to include him on this quest.
Could it be my wits were addled by too much time with Old Toby?
Can a little leaf confound a wizard’s mind?
Did my love of hobbits strip me of my logic long ago?
See the way affection leaves an old man blind!
First that mischief at the Pony – yes, I heard all about that,
When he glibly blurted out poor Frodo’s name.
And that pebble in Moria; why, I could have knocked him flat!
When the orcs arrived, I fear he was to blame.
Now he’s mingled with a malice that he cannot comprehend,
And I’m certain the encounter left him scarred.
More than ever, I endeavor to protect him till the end.
I shall try – but goodness gracious, it is hard!
He lacks Bilbo’s intuition, but he also lacks his pride;
He is humble, and he knows that he’s a fool.
And I’m told he wept for hours when he thought that I had died.
He is tender in a world that’s often cruel.
Did he know what he was getting into? Never! Not a chance!
He was reckless; there are those who’d call it brave.
He relinquished leisurely life, full of food and drink and dance,
For a friend he would do anything to save.
When I see him, I recall the gentle goodness of the Shire
And that if we failed, how great would be the cost.
Though I would not soon admit it, he has virtues I admire,
And without that foolish Took, I would be lost.
Fool of a Took
I don’t know what to do with him, this nuisance of a halfling
Who’s proven to be nothing but a pest
Throughout our short acquaintance. Looking back, I find it baffling
I concurred to include him on this quest.
Could it be my wits were addled by too much time with Old Toby?
Can a little leaf confound a wizard’s mind?
Did my love of hobbits strip me of my logic long ago?
See the way affection leaves an old man blind!
First that mischief at the Pony – yes, I heard all about that,
When he glibly blurted out poor Frodo’s name.
And that pebble in Moria; why, I could have knocked him flat!
When the orcs arrived, I fear he was to blame.
Now he’s mingled with a malice that he cannot comprehend,
And I’m certain the encounter left him scarred.
More than ever, I endeavor to protect him till the end.
I shall try – but goodness gracious, it is hard!
He lacks Bilbo’s intuition, but he also lacks his pride;
He is humble, and he knows that he’s a fool.
And I’m told he wept for hours when he thought that I had died.
He is tender in a world that’s often cruel.
Did he know what he was getting into? Never! Not a chance!
He was reckless; there are those who’d call it brave.
He relinquished leisurely life, full of food and drink and dance,
For a friend he would do anything to save.
When I see him, I recall the gentle goodness of the Shire
And that if we failed, how great would be the cost.
Though I would not soon admit it, he has virtues I admire,
And without that foolish Took, I would be lost.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)