Three Hunters
(or How they Brought the Good News from Rohan to Fangorn)
(How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix by Robert Browning)

I sprang to the stirrup, and Gimli, and he;
I galloped, they galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the men, as eored withdrew;
"Speed!" echoed the land to us galloping through;
Behind lay the pathways, the tracks and the rest,
And off to the forest we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, tightened my belt,
Nor galloped less steadily Legolas elf.

'Twas early at starting; but while we drew near
Old Fangorn, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
In sky, a great yellow star came out to see;
At sunrise, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And when distant orc-smoking gave out its black-grime,
So Gimli broke silence, "Its past breakfast time!"

At smoke pile, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against it the orc-heads stood cooked until done,
To stare through the haze at us, lolling and black,
And I saw my stout Gimli of Gloin and axe,
With resolute shoulders, go butting away
Orc-bits, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And Elf's blonde head and bow, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's blue intelligence,-ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his companion, askance!
He watched thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
Dwarf's fierce lips shook upwards in burrowing on.

By Eru, I groaned; for cried Gimli "Wee belt!"
Hobbits as briquettes, ah! our fault, how we felt!
We'd remember them well - as I fell to my knees
Going groundward, saw footprints and gave a small wheeze,
And bowed down, with never a thought of my rank,
As down to my haunches I quivered and sank.

So, they were left wondering, Gimli and Elf,
Past grass and past gravel, I tracked them myself;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath my feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by by woods some foot-prints in flight,
" 'Tis madness," gasped Gimli, "such woods are a sight!"

"How they'll need us!"-and all in a moment his moan
Rolled out of his beard, laying heavy as stone;
But there was Legolas to translate for trees,
Giving news in Elvish, the Dwarf for to tease,
"White wizard approaches" he whispered to me,
And we readied our blades, this wizard to see.

Then I cast loose my swordblade, his arrow let fly,
He shook off our weapons, this wizard who'd died,
Stood up and gave counsel, leaned upon his staff
Said the hobbits were safely uncooked and borne aft.
Clapped our hands, laughed and sang, any noise that was good,
We gave as we capered. Then at last still we stood.

Then all I remember is-friends flocking round
As we sat so his beard went past knees to the ground;
And his voice all a-praising these Hunters of mine,
As I poured down our throats our last measure of wine,
Which (the wizard assented a worthy fine fling)
Was no more than our due who had news of halflings.

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My Last Steward
(based on My Last Duchess by Robert Browning)

That's my last Steward dropping off the wall,
Still kicking as if he were alive. I call
That sight a wonder, now: For Gandalf's hands
Worked busily this day, and there he goes.
Will't please you sit and look at him fall? I said
Yes, Gandalf's by design, for never underestimate
Wizards like you might a man's skills,
The depth and passion of his chosen art.
From myself my Steward turned (since never I desired
The pyre he did build for himself, not I)
And seemed as he would ask me, if he durst,
How such a king came here; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
His son's fever only, called that shriek
Of insanity unto the Steward's tongue: perhaps
As Gandalf chanced to say "The mantle laps
Over this lord's pride too much," or "Fireworks
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-sparkle that died along his descent.": such stuff,
Mere courtesy, I thought, and cause enough
For calling up that insane shriek. A whistle? He had
A mind--how shall I say?--too easily shaken,
Too easily deceived; he believed whate'er
He looked on, and his looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one deceit! A palantir at his breast,
The dropping of the fiery Steward off the cliff,
A fall from such height - no officious fool
To break that fall for him, because of the white tree
He wears upon his chest --thus pride goeth down, each
Spark draws from him quicker than bonfire,
Clean flame, at least. He used refined oil --good! and copper
Sulphate somehow--I know not how--perhaps from his ranking
Embroidery. That title of a many-hundred-years-old rank
Was too hard to give up. He'd stoop to blame,
To a sort of trifling first.  Even had he Saruman's skill
In speech--which he had not--to make his will
Quite clear with that crystal globe, and say, "Just this
Or that in you I'll see; here I'll look,
Or there I've aimed the mark"--and if he let
Himself be drawn in so, it plainly outstripped
His wits!, forsooth, he  made excuses,
--E'en then would he come stooping; though I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, he smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed him; but who passed without
Much the same hideous smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There he flails,
As if yet alive. See the flames and sparks rise? He'll meet
That haywagon below, then. I say,
Gandalf's a master with fireworks, known in municipality
And country, I'll warrant, and that no pretense
Of mine. Colored sparks! Ah, let them not be disallowed;
Though his fair fire's craft, as I avowed
Is just starting, it is my delight. Nay we'll go
Together to the ale-tent now, sir. Notice those hobbits, though,
Chugging a half-gallon, as if that ale were a rarity
Which Elrond of Rivendell brewed especially for me!

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Song of Frodobaggins
(based on Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

    From the caves of Gitche Gollum,
From the placid under-water,
Came the golden ring of Sauron,
Darkener of the lands, was Sauron.
Carried out beyond the forest,
Out past lack and gloomy pine-trees
Out to where the Shire was brighter,
Bright, they brewed the ale of water,
'Drank the foaming, flavored water,
Drank it at the Big-Day Party.
    There the wrinkled old B.Baggins
Taught the younger, Frodobaggins,
Taught him all his Elvish letters,
Showed him all the Shire boundaries,
Safely bound by bounding Bounders;
Stilled his endless questions saying,
"Hush! the Sackville-Baggins hear thee!"
Lulled him into safety singing,
"Hey-ho, to the bottle go I!"
    Many things B.Baggins taught him
Of the stars that shine in heaven:
Showed him Earendil, Mariner,
Earendil, with ship a-sailing;
Showed the Springle-ring of Hobbits,
Hobbits with their cakes and tankards,
Dancing all across the tables
At the parties; summer, winter.
Showed the Road, ever ongoing,
Pathway of the great adventures,
Running ever, there ongoing,
Stepped upon to great adventures.
    At the door of Bag End, evenings,
Sat the hobbit, Frodobaggins;
Heard the whispering of Lobelia,
Heard the lapping of ale waters,
Sounds of laughter, words of farmers;
"Blah-ha-ha-ha!" said the drinkers.
"Gluggle-splashka!" said the water.
    Saw the Wizard, grey-clad Gandalf,
Wand'ring thorough the dusk of evening.
With the twinkle of his candles
Lighting up the brakes and bushes,
Sparkling lights for all the children.
Sang the song B.Baggins taught him:
"Grey-clad Gandalf, wand'ring wizard,
Wand'ring, all your fire-works shooting
Light the Shire with your candles,
'Disturber of the peace they call me
Goodness gracious!' so you tell me.
    Saw the Ring shine, from the water,
Golden, rounded, from the water,
Saw the gleam and shadow of it.
Whispered, "What is that, Grey Gandalf?"
And the good Grey Gandalf answered,
"Once a warrior, very angry,
Seized his sword-of-fathers, and cut it
From the hand of dark-lord Sauron;
'Tis his Ring now, that you see here."
    Saw the gardener, under windows,
In the silenced trimming found him,
Whispered, "Who is that, Grey Gandalf?"
And the good Grey Gandalf answered:
"'Tis but Samwise that I find there;
All the wild-flowers scattered round him,
All the trimmings, all the secrets
That he heard must fade and perish
Not unnatural, he goes with us."
    When he saw the runes a-burning
All the darkness that was shining.
"What is that?" he cried in terror:
"What is that," he said, "Grey Gandalf?"
And the good Grey Gandalf answered:
"That is but the runes of Mordor,
Writing in its native language,
Writing, binding of the others."
    Then the hobbit, Frodobaggins
Learned of Elven rings, their hiding,
Learned their tales and many secrets,
How they helped against the darkness,
And were hid away in secret.
Talked of his and how he kept it,
Called it "Frodobaggins' Secret."
    Of all the hobbits chose companions,
Learned their whispers and all their planning,
How the hobbits built their courage;
Where the dragon's-throat a-jumping.
How they all would run so swiftly,
Why the Fatty was so timid,
Talked with them when by the fireside,
Called them "Frodobaggins' Brothers."

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To a Steward
(from To a Skylark by Percy Blythe Shelley)

Hail to thee, proud Steward!
Crown thy'll never fill
That from high throne, or near it,
Pourest thy full will
In profuse strains of premeditated ill.

Higher still and higher
From the tower thou gazest
Like a cloud of fire,
The black deep thou seekest,
And broken, still dost seek, the future ever bleakest.

In the reddened lightning
Of the smothered sun,
O'er which clouds are frightening,
Thou dost burn and bend
Like an unbodied Man whose race has met its end.

The pale people even

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Sauron Ring-maker
(based on Ozymandias by Shelley)

I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said: Two vast and hingeless gates of stone
Lay in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered tower lies whose turrets,
And sharpened spikes and sheen of cold black stone
Tell that its owner well the dark passions knew,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The voice that mocked them, and the eye that watched.
And on the base these words appear:
"My name is Sauron, Ring-maker, Lord of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

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No Good Morrow
(based on The Good Morrow by John Donne)

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, before this journey? Were we not weaned till then,
But suckled on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we, asleep in Bilbo's old den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures seem to end;
If ever any beauty I should recall,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas only doomed to fall.

And no good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For feeling the dread of other sights controls,
And makes one golden band an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers on far sea-billows roll;
Leave maps to others, worlds upon worlds have shown;
I shall possess one world; this be mine, mine to own.

I turn from the Eye, thine face to mine appears,
And a true plain heart in they face does rest;
Where could I find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west?
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, then none can die.

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Fateful Woods
(Based on As Toilsome I Wander'd Virginia's Woods by Walt Whitman)

As toilsome I fought through those fateful woods,
To the music of rustling leaves kick'd by my feet, (for autumn was past,)
I mark'd at the foot of a tree the gasping body of a soldier;
Mortally wounded he and abandoned by enemy retreat, (he tried to make me understand,)
The halflings taken, this mid-day hour, get up! no time to lose - yet this final word,
Through his dying breath gasp'd, 'neath the tree, near his grave,
"My brother, my Captain and my King."

Long, long I muse, then on my way go hunting,
Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life;
Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, or in embattled crowd,
Comes before me perchance from his unknown grave, comes the words I heard in those fateful woods,
"My brother, my Captain and my King."

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The Shore of the Havens
(Based on 'stand with your lover..' by e.e. cummings)

Come stand with me here on the ending earth -

and while a(huge which by which huger than
huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow

suppose we could not go,dear, imagine

ourselves like living neither nor dead - left behind
(or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move)
on blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of

time time time time time

-how fortunate are you and i,whose home
will be timelessness:we who have been blessed to wander
from fragrant mountains to eternal now

to frolic in such mysteries as rings
and death only a day(or maybe even less)

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Spider-baiting
(Based on A Noiseless Patient Spider by Walt Whitman)

A noiseless patient spider -
He mark'd where on the fat dwarf-hung branch it stood isolated,
Mark'd how it explor'd the plump catch dangling,
And launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever strapping them, ever tirelessly wrapping them.

And you O Hobbit where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in a measureless ocean of trees,
Ceaselessly calling, venturing, throwing, seeking the spiders to sting them,
Till the confusion you will need be form'd, till thy companions be loosed,
Till the gossamer taunts you fling catch somewhere,
O Hobbit.

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Smeagol is Icumin In
(Based on Sumer is Icumin in, traditional from the 12th century)

Smeagol is icumin in,
Lordy, Ring-cuccu!
Baldeth head and underfed
And clotheseth nearly nude,
Ring-cuccu!
Alway bleteth after Sam,
Lunge after Frodo too;
Bully scaredeth, how he staredeth,
Gimme Ring cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu,
He'll wringeth thu, cuccu,
Ne trust thu naver nu.
Ne Ring-cuccu! Ring-cuccu!
Ring-cuccu! Ne Ring-cuccu!

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He Creeps in Blackly
(Based on She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron)

He creeps in blackly like the night
Of clouded climes and obscured skies:
And all that's worst of dark and fright
Meet in his aspect and his eyes;
Theus stranger to that brighter light
Which heaven long since to him denied.

One shade the more, one ring the less
Had far impaired his withered face
Which slavered o'er every stinking fish
Or coldly robbed of every grace
Held thoughts no creature dare express,
Beneath the earth his dwelling-place.

And in those eyes and o'er that brow,
So hard, so mad, so hypocrite,
The words that urge, the fires that glow,
But tell of nights in darkness spent,
A mind bereft, bent on below,
A heart who has no innocence!