Poetry Meme (Re-revisited)
I really will attempt to put together some other content, but I've been awfully busy of late.
This time around, I'm pointing you to what I personally believe to be one of J. R. R. Tolkien's best pieces of fiction. I am not going to get into a long debate about how The Hobbit is a masterwork or how The Lord of the Rings was influential. Similarly, I'm not going to address any of his nonfiction, which was also quite impressive. Given that the Tolkien estate has not yet allowed his translation of Beowulf to be printed, I won't say that it's his best verse, either, particularly since I've not actually read the entirety of his poetry that has been printed.
I will, however, say that it's a helluva stirring piece of writing, and when I first read it, it floored me with its imagery and meter. Reproduced below is a selection from Canto II of "The Lay of Lúthien," which you can find in The Lays of Beleriand, which is the third book in the History of Middle Earth series, edited by Christopher Tolkien.
from "The Lay of Lúthien," Canto II
by J. R. R. Tolkien
Far in the North neath hills of stone
in caverns black there was a throne
by fires illumined underground,
that winds of ice with moaning sound
made flare and flicker in dark smoke;
the wavering bitter coils did choke
the sunless airs of dungeons deep
where evil things did crouch and creep.
There sat a king: no Elfin race
nor mortal blood, nor kindly grace
of earth or heaven might he own,
far older, stronger than the stone
the world is built of, than the fire
that burns within more fierce and dire;
and thoughts profound were in his heart:
a gloomy power that dwelt apart.
Unconquerable spears of steel
were at his nod. No ruth did feel
the legions of his marshalled hate,
on whom did wolf and raven wait;
and black the ravens sat and cried
upon their banners black, and wide
was heard their hideous chanting dread
above the reek and trampled dead.
With fire and sword his ruin red
on all that would not bow the head
like lightning fell. The Northern land
lay groaning neath his ghastly hand.
But still there lived in hiding cold
undaunted, Barahir the bold,
of land bereaved, of lordship shorn,
who once a prince of Men was born
and now an outlaw lurked and lay
in the hard heath and woodland grey,
and with him clung of faithful men
but Beren his son and other ten.
Yet small as was their hunted band
still fell and fearless was each hand,
and strong deeds they wrought yet oft,
and loved the woods, whose ways more soft
them seemed than thralls of that black throne
to live and languish in halls of stone.
King Morgoth still pursued them sore
with men and dogs, and wolf and boar
with spells of madness filled he sent
to slay them as in the woods they went;
yet nought hurt them for many years,
until, in brief to tell what tears
have oft bewailed in ages gone,
nor ever tears enough, was done
a deed unhappy; unaware
their feet were caught in Morgoth's snare.
This time around, I'm pointing you to what I personally believe to be one of J. R. R. Tolkien's best pieces of fiction. I am not going to get into a long debate about how The Hobbit is a masterwork or how The Lord of the Rings was influential. Similarly, I'm not going to address any of his nonfiction, which was also quite impressive. Given that the Tolkien estate has not yet allowed his translation of Beowulf to be printed, I won't say that it's his best verse, either, particularly since I've not actually read the entirety of his poetry that has been printed.
I will, however, say that it's a helluva stirring piece of writing, and when I first read it, it floored me with its imagery and meter. Reproduced below is a selection from Canto II of "The Lay of Lúthien," which you can find in The Lays of Beleriand, which is the third book in the History of Middle Earth series, edited by Christopher Tolkien.
from "The Lay of Lúthien," Canto II
by J. R. R. Tolkien
Far in the North neath hills of stone
in caverns black there was a throne
by fires illumined underground,
that winds of ice with moaning sound
made flare and flicker in dark smoke;
the wavering bitter coils did choke
the sunless airs of dungeons deep
where evil things did crouch and creep.
There sat a king: no Elfin race
nor mortal blood, nor kindly grace
of earth or heaven might he own,
far older, stronger than the stone
the world is built of, than the fire
that burns within more fierce and dire;
and thoughts profound were in his heart:
a gloomy power that dwelt apart.
Unconquerable spears of steel
were at his nod. No ruth did feel
the legions of his marshalled hate,
on whom did wolf and raven wait;
and black the ravens sat and cried
upon their banners black, and wide
was heard their hideous chanting dread
above the reek and trampled dead.
With fire and sword his ruin red
on all that would not bow the head
like lightning fell. The Northern land
lay groaning neath his ghastly hand.
But still there lived in hiding cold
undaunted, Barahir the bold,
of land bereaved, of lordship shorn,
who once a prince of Men was born
and now an outlaw lurked and lay
in the hard heath and woodland grey,
and with him clung of faithful men
but Beren his son and other ten.
Yet small as was their hunted band
still fell and fearless was each hand,
and strong deeds they wrought yet oft,
and loved the woods, whose ways more soft
them seemed than thralls of that black throne
to live and languish in halls of stone.
King Morgoth still pursued them sore
with men and dogs, and wolf and boar
with spells of madness filled he sent
to slay them as in the woods they went;
yet nought hurt them for many years,
until, in brief to tell what tears
have oft bewailed in ages gone,
nor ever tears enough, was done
a deed unhappy; unaware
their feet were caught in Morgoth's snare.