#tolkien
Four hobbits are to do one thing...
Two flex and look commited.
Two whine, while clinging to a ring
They have been tasked to yeet!
How many hobbits must it take
To dispossess a nay-lord?
Up to what Gendalf can't forsake
Due to increasing payload.
I have become a tyrant beyond limits!
Man prostrates, elvish people begs.
Alas, I have a mortal weakness.
Short people with absurdly hairy legs.
There's nothing in this world beyond my power,
There's nothing in my sight beyond my grip.
But **** this helmet that resembles static tower.
I cannot register the men below 5 feet.
If only I could tilt my head a little,
I could have spotted little rascals go!
I could have stayed forever ancient evil
Whilst having healthy posture over all!
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 12:59 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Tropes, Dopes, Middle-Earth, and Culture Worriers
I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of
Aryan extraction: that is Indo-Iranian; as far as I am aware
none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or
any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are
enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I
regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.
-Tolkien, from a letter rebuking a German publisher, 1938
One does not imagine Tolkien schlubbing about
In a garish cartoon tee and baggy shorts
A Glock strapped to his 50-inch waist
Shopping the dollar store in a Trumpy cap
One does not imagine Lewis following QAnon
Encouraging Peter to take an AR to Latin class
Or quartering the Cross of good Saint George
With a swastika’s spidering wheel of shame
Not all evil comes from outside the Shire –
Sometimes evil is our own internal desire
On the time J.R.R. Tolkien refused to work with Nazi-leaning publishers. ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)
Why does Lord of the Rings appeal to the radical right? – The Irish Times
Behind the Catholic Right’s Celebrity-Conversion Industrial Complex | Vanity Fair
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 2:02 PM UTC
Remember the shine of the great Eye always watching
Fire and shadow lurking over the mountains
An army chanting a language so very harsh, it hurts to sound
The break of the dawn where clouds are darken, and dreams are dead
Towards the pass, between the Black Gates
Lies the servent of great old foe
Who is now unlike his master, survived all the lords of the world
To become a lord of his own
One ring to rule them all
One ring to find them
One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
In the lands of Mordor where shadow lies
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 3:35 PM UTC
They were human once, it is said.
Now they torture the living
and abandon their dead.
Like their predecessors
of the same name,
killing is their pleasure
and destruction their game.
Their Dark Lord sits upon his throne
in Sochi, where his mind dwells alone.
To unite all, under his dark reign,
as subjects, or slaves—to Him, all the same.
No longer in Thangorodrim does He dwell.
He rules now from Moscow, and seeks
an Empire of Hell.
Hell is created
by the ORCS whom he orders.
Their blood lust to be sated
far beyond Russia’s borders.
Destruction they rain from the skies above
on people who flee
from all that they love.
They were human once,
and perhaps even Him.
Now they are beyond
the world’s Creation
and we call on Varda
to vanquish him.
Apr 2, 2022
Apr 2, 2022 at 1:00 AM UTC
to the man donned in black
to the woman with no spine
and a broken back
you work in slumber
with eyes unopened
to life's beauty
you have only spoken
brief talks betwixt dreams
stiffened, when awoken
of thoughts that linger a ways away
in a land of virtue
reminiscent of tolkien
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
It was a deep sadness and a deep love
that I let myself be taken,
from childhood and memories of light.
Not all that's gold that glitters,
I've read the Fellowship as a child,
walked the misty road in-between
with sisters of blood and of love.
Faeries we imagined, dragons we searched,
orcs we fought.
Our members were young and barefoot,
in a world only we could see.
Tolkien and the fae folk,
Witches, potions, and fairy rings.
Barefeet catching on the cattle trail
avoiding snakes and goblin feet.
Elves and wood nymphs guarding,
the cattle paddock, and those
sweet years, in the misty in-between.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 7:58 PM UTC
Old man Oxford, plump
and merry in shape
and glee, a professor
of all things written
and green, his friends,
wooden and tall,
endowed him a pipe
of oaken skin, gilded
in bark and mirth, and
with this gift, he
smoked their leaves
and painted tales
of wondrous things,
each puff and ember
smithed his words,
carrying his thoughts
up high, where they
ventured in the golden
glitter of the sky, and
onto pages, forever,
in our minds, so,
thank you kind Tollers,
for you are the treasure
at the start of this
adventure.
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 9:40 AM UTC
She only wanted to walk freely,
or gallop through a valley
and feel the wind in her hair.
To camp by a stream and eat lembas
and wild roots. Wander here and there
with Feanor’s sons, hunt wild boar, and drink
and laugh.
She would cast away the distaff.
But freedom for a woman can be a fragile thing,
beautiful and brief as a moth’s wing.
Eol, the Dark Elf, dwelt in shadow, in Nan Elmoth.
He saw Aredhel, alone and lost, and desired her, to betroth.
She had no choice
but to seek help at a stranger’s door.
And then she had choice no more.
Captivity breaks weaker hearts.
But Aredhel was Elven, and of Finwe’s line.
She bided time. She worked her womanly arts.
She raised a son, and loved him,
and told him stories of fair Gondolin.
When chance arrived, they broke free
and fled West, to the fair city.
Eol, enraged, pursued them,
and the words of Curufin stung him.
He would have killed his only son
for his defiance, but fate denied him
this pyrrhic victory.
Maeglin lived, and watched his father
die, as he stood by, free.
Maeglin—his father’s son—desired one
who loved him not. In reckless despair, he traveled too far,
and Morgoth preyed on his shame and desire.
It was not hard to turn Maeglin traitor and liar.
But no reward had Maeglin in this life--
never did he take fair Idril to wife.
Aredhel died to save her son, not knowing
he would be the one
to bring ruin on the Elven city.
Maeglin (his father’s son) had no kindness nor pity.
He revealed the secret path
to Morgoth (his likeness in envy and in wrath).
And in the end, all fell: Gondolin, Nargothrond
and Doriath.
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 2:01 PM UTC
Tired
Tried to do things on my own
Guess it was not easy
So within a day or two
I suppose
Love will see us through
How are we to know
What God has in store for us?
It is obvious
Written
and
Spoken
Our token
Our values
Credentials
Over-ridden
to Oblivion
Which turns into Obsidian
Spoken Truth in tongues
and tonage of Urantia
So even though I fall through to Gehenna
I know
I believe
that You will always be there
Because Returning to God is to Live
Connection
Inspiration
Soul-charge
How do you Charge your Soul
Some say 'Stay grounded,"
I say, "Soar Aloft!"
Who cares if it is with wings of Angel's or Vultures
Differentiation and separation weigh down.
Fly like You must!
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 10:15 AM UTC
And where you walk
and now you lay
None shall ever know
For her you lost
returned to yore
Where your kins awoke
And back you never
came i see
Wistful cry of Elfinesse
They say in south
you stroll alone
Playing magic musics still
A call to her
your sister sweet to
Dance again upon your flute
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
Re-Reading Tolkien for Lent
Across the page, across the words, soft light
Soft morning light at play this quiet day
This stand-down day when duty does not call
Not call, and life is for a few hours free
Ink on a page, now forming into songs
Songs that were old when this green world was new
And fields of flowers were as fields of stars
Fields of Creation and eternal Hope
O happy fields forever, here, right here
Across the page, across the words, soft light
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
A friend of mine asks,
“Why do you only ever write about romance lately?”
Well, the answer is quite simple, really. It is because I have tasted it.
I tasted it when my eyes first drank the light from his grace when he stood tall above me
His saturnine windows called out to me behind flesh curtains whenever he spoke, ever asking me to join him in his ecstasy
He, from a distance, darted towards me and pressed our sides together—letting myself melt in the velveteen touch of fabric skin
There was a shower of momentary light that night but only his radiance did I bask in.
I tasted it in the heart of the stone city where usurpers of old stood on polished stone
The Bulwark’s adobe reach embraced our reverie as memories from sleep stories become reality
He, in the confines of that venerable fortress, made me vulnerable for I was secure in his arms
His fingers are in between my own like woven mithril unbreakable lest he broke its bond himself
It is in this kingdom of carven stone and handmade walls that he sang of ardor with a dragon’s petrifying gaze.
I tasted it in yuletide storms where men and women waged war with happiness and grief
When the armies of pain and suffering fell at our clasped hands and cheeks red from amorous verve you said you were to journey home
But you did not let go of my grasp
With me you remained and in your arms I stayed
As the bitter winds of bigoted mouths blew, as the fire from damnation is declared by self-righteous souls, we stood fast in the storm.
I tasted it when he said our love he could no longer endure
There we sat, on a tarnished vehicle, as the last of our love gave into rust
What is frightening to me peeked from his saturnine eyes and he closed his curtains shut for the downpour of despondency was to come
We flooded our façades and the rivers quaked our emotional integrity
He held my hand for one final chance before we ripped our wrappings forever apart and he kissed me tender
Our lips made love—like the first they ever met in weathered heat—for the last time.
I tasted it when I told him “Just do so, when your appetite roars to love me again,” and until now I am waiting.
So, why do I ever only write about romance lately?
Well, the reason is quite complicated, really. But–but it is because I’ve tasted it.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 2:00 PM UTC
and isn't strange
that i'm sitting in my car
in a parking garage
thinking of you and missing
your stupid plumb apple face
or maybe it's carved from soap
or shaved glass
fragmented by pieces
collected in bindles
followed by bundles
of the joy i used to have
of the sleep i used to get
of the energy i used to take
and isn't it strange how
i have no desire to have you
all to myself for you are
an automous being that
breathes and thinks and acts
wholy different than me
but i can't help but miss you
and your kiwi colored eyes
with the seeds cut out
dipped in a ring of gold
and like smegal i yearn to
hold that precious ring of gold
in my shriveled hands
even though i know
it'll corrupt me
but i'm drawn to mordor
all the same
that's what it's like
missing you
wanting to go there
even when I shouldn't
and isn't it strange
that my world is shifting
complicit and complicated
a deficit of the senses
a pull from the void
a shake of the head
with such filigree i am sated
but blinded by such yearning
to touch your hot skin
feel it rest
against mine
again but
maybe i'm too addicted to sparks
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 1:35 PM UTC
There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;
legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
the ring that ruled
before dawn and day,
o'er summer & an old sun
with its shafts of remebrance;
shall it remain in middle-earth
and the Dark Lord will feed upon all that is green;
shall it become fire from the mountain
and fair lairs will tremble with the wind of age.
but what is to be must be;
all we have left is what we always had:
the power of a single day that is given to us -
one road to fulfill, to live, and to love.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
The affairs of humans I find amusing
and I keep a dragon entwined about
my thumb to do my bidding
let the blood fall like rain and
burn the bodies as kindling
ashes
let their glare and the fogs of war
abolish the very sun.
listen for the sound of hunger in the silence
of my approach
cower in the shade of shades
let the fiery blaze of your hopes be eclipsed
at the sight of the sightless void that is me
for only then will I halt
only then will I lift my blood-wet mouth
and then shall I howell the futility-
of my nothingness.
for then I will see where I stand
in the necropolis Golgatha
and alone shall I perish.
amids carnage and oblivion
For I shunn the vulgarity of the maimed earth
I may not have company of myself for the
ocean no longer bears reflection
As for Fire, its blaze drives me beneath
And the wind?! it speaks unintelligible babble
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
Yavanna Kementari
The giver of fruits
The mother of trees
The mother of roots
Creator of Laurelin
and Telperions light
The light of the trees
Put an end to the night
She created the moon
She created the sun
With a flower, a fruit
And with light it was done
She is our lady, tall and green
She is our mother
Our beautiful queen
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
A place with elves
dwarves, hobbits and men
A place with tales
We hear again and again
A place with adventure
That will never die
A place to laugh
And a place to cry
A place with songs
Of ancient days
Sung by elves
Merry and gay
A place where you hear
The hobbits laughter
Where they live
Happily ever after
Where mountains are filled
With silver and gold
Where the dwarves mine
Mighty and bold
A place with men
In cities of stone
And their great king
Sits on a beautiful throne
A place with lore
To others unknown
A place that I love
A place that's my own
There I live
And there will I die
In middle earth
My heart will lie
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
The flames of Avalone run deep
in the wells of our hearts,
Yet Avalone is lost to man
black are its sundered parts
of old what grew,so fair
shining,yonder to the west
wherefore has it passed,and why,
does not the light,glimmering,silver gold,
appear to the mortal eye
The two trees that stood,seemingly eternal
are now watered but by shadow
And light,oh cruel light it is now
that burns and does not gently flow
like it did,among the towers of Avalone
The light has passed into flame
blue and white,searing above all else
souls who sought once its blessing
a treacherous guide,
ever leading to the vaults of the deep
where dark and evil light,
remain ever stoking their devilry
spewing it out,into the halls of the night
where yet there is to be found
some of the beauty that was afore
for the stars,they came from Arda
and to her they are bound
They rest among shadow,but glitter
like they did,above the skies of Avalone
Beauty, what of the fallen beauty?
unfathomable among losses, unnumbered are the tears
for even the tongues,of those who did dwell,
there in its glory,have mingled, and remain,
over the see,where the trees fell
and are heard not among men,to whom but
a whisper came,and darkness,and memory
passed on by age,of the vanquished,of the slain
and of those forgotten among the flames of Avalone
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
Shun the elixir, the demon water, the Irishman's albatross!
Liver cirrhosis and overdoses, we wander until we are lost
The Prodigal's son, returned in the flesh, but his mind had been left behind
He was withered and scarred and the wounds that he bare could not even be healed by time
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC