August 14th, 2013

bilbo

that poetry m-type thing

Originally published at Faith Seeking Understanding. You can comment here or there.

A while ago I suggested we fannish types start our own version of the poetry meme making the rounds at LiveJournal. Basically, you share a part of your favorite poem, not by a published writer but by a fanfic writer. Thanks to Himring for actually getting this started.

When it comes to Tolkien poetry, while I love the poems written by many different people, the first person I always think of is Aeneid. Unfortunately she’s not really in fanom anymore. Also unfortunately, the only place I can find her poetry is at Henneth Annun, and for a technical reason all the line breaks have been edited out. The site’s technical team developed a handy-dandy tool where you can click a single button and have the line-breaks re-entered, but each author does need to do this, and… well, see above about Aeneid not really being in fandom these days.

Still, you can’t beat “110,” “Imladris Reinterpreted,” and pretty much everything this author wrote. There’s also a useful hack: if you tell your browser to view the source code you can see the poem with the line breaks. In Firefox you just click control-u while the page is displayed, and then scroll down to near the bottom of the pop-up window to see the actual text.

Here’s a sample from “110,” which is actually a mix of prose and poetry about Boromir’s journey to Rivendell.

The thirty-first night, he sleeps in the rain. A flat stone by some fallen boulders, a makeshift shelter. But not enough shelter, no, not enough. He unrolls the slopping blanket, pulls it over himself in a futile effort to block out this torrential storm. Still in his chain mail, for he is too weary to remove it, burrowing down into the hard earth. The ribs still trouble him from the light bruising, not three days ago, when the horse slipped and threw him. He lies on his side, the good side, feeling his breathing shallow, constricted. Rain, rain, rain thundering down, muffling his thoughts, drenching the blanket and bedroll and pack and everything. Softening the earth to mud.

Tonight he does not think of Osgiliath or Minas Tirith or battle-strategy or his brother or this fool’s errand. He thinks only of how the mud is soaking through his bedroll, and the chain mail is digging into his wet garments, stifling, clinching, and how his ribs ache, and how this is uncharted territory and he should have reached Tharbad by now…

Greyflood
Grey skies, grey water, grey horse
Rain, rain, still raining,
It has been raining for a week
The horse slips, snorts, clops
Moss-covered stones and water up to the thighs
He leads on, tugs, urges,
Soothing,
“Come now, come on,
Not halfway through yet,
Steady now…”
And water sloshing over bridge-remains,
Spraying up,
Deeper, deeper, deeper,
Water up to his chest now,
Chain mail dragging,

Momentary panic – Osgiliath reminders Osgiliath drowning brother two others and bridges collapsing orc arrows drowning drowning drowning and and and…</i>