Frodo's Poem for Sam

- jan-u-wine

It  was two months ago, you know.

Two months AND a day.  Don't forget the day.

I have not forgotten the day.

Even as I did not forget yours.

You did not write for me.

I'm not very good at writing when I aught, nor to
order.

To order? To order? For me, 'to order'?!

Have you ever.....well, have you ever just had so many
words, so many thoughts, so many.....feelings.....that
they just got all tangled up amongst each other and
wouldn't come out at all? Have you never felt that no
words you could ever say were good enough?

Well.

Well?

Yes.

And time passes and there are words....not good
enough, still, those words, but you understand that
they will do, that they must  do, since we surely
have no others....

And, so....?

I have them, if you should still choose to hear them,
small Prince...

Please.
__________________________________________________



Somehow, between moon-rise and sun-set, somehow, I missed the path.
Covered deep in leaves, it was, burdened beneath words and dreams and tales told twice
under duck-head-blue skies....

I mis-stepped and fell headlong into otherwhen and
saw, as if it were but a moment gone, red-eyed,
red-tongued fire and shadows of terror swaying upon
walls blooded in an age fallen to dust. Gold-molten
islands drifted beneath my feet, and the river which
held them called to the brother that weighted me.

Never have I been so sure of myself.

Never have I been.....so....
not myself.

Sharp
as the quick-slice of a blade,
this division of me
and

me....

and yet,
dull,

blunt-edged,

raw
with darken'd
half-felt

torment,

ice
and

night-hewn
fire

arcing
with fear,
desire

love ……

hate…….



Need.

 

no
oh

no.

My hand moves.

It cannot be me that moves it,

I know it cannot
be

me....

and my mind wills it to not move,
and I feel my own fingers at my throat,
see

the broken chain drop careless
to the ground.

What must I be doing,
that you look at me
with such despair.... 

help me
help me...

help....

But you cannot help me,
now,

can you?

The voice twines itself
around

my every thought,
darkness impelled
by my own heart-beat,

night falling like a carrion-crow
across the windows of my mind....

It laughs and takes me

with
such

ease

and

It whispers,

(endlessly echoing)


that

It has only waited,
only

bided

until I should bring It here,

that It should watch my torment,
my death-which-shall-never-be....

Ah, madness.

Like the tender touch
of a lover,

this oblivion,
like the fangs
of a serpent

sinking
sharp

deep

welcome

into waiting flesh,
like

the delicate caress
of forever,

closing my eyes
in turn,

weighting them
with an image

drowning
in fire.


Of a sudden, the World is large again,

whole,

yet
somehow painfully

small,
splintered

and the sound
and smell

and sight
of it

rushes back in upon me,
like an angry sea.

There is nothing left.

Nothing to do
or be

or say.

I will just lay my head down and rest here,

rest,

and
sleep

until this kindly fire
culls death from the doors of uneasy dreme. 

_______________________________________________

And there you rested, my lord.

Yes.

And the Eagles came and bore you away, back into the
winds of the World and the realms of Light.

Yes.

And the stars called to you as you wandered in dream,
and the Sea spilled song into the emptied rooms of
your mind....

Yes.

And you awoke to Spring.

......yes.

But not to redemption.

No.

Nor to Home?

To home, yes.  To Home, no. 

In the losing was the gaining, and in the gaining the
losing.

How clever you are, today.

I have hurt you.

Yes.

Even the Lady told you it should be thus.

I
did not.....

understand
what she meant.

And if you had understood, would it not have been
the same?

Yes.

I have another story, my lord.

Ah.

_____________________________

it is quiet
(gently quiet,

waitingly quiet)
along the blue-black
ribbon of the shore.

Not quite dawn,
sky

pearl and rose
with the Sun's coming,

moon
riding pale
in the vault
of the east.

Earendil
attends upon him,

bright barque
counterpoint to tarnished
gold.

His Song
is like clear water

falling
in waves of silver'd
crystal

to my ears.

I have not,
as yet,
learnt to answer
him in kind.

And so I listen,
(and I walk)
the Song running
its questions
and

gentle answers
like summer-night
wine
within me.

Parchment-ragged roses,
roots
like bared fingers
struggle
along the path.

The Song is within,

around
them,
as well.

With sudden astonishment,
I understand:

the Sea,
the shore,

these fleeting flowers...

the very rocks anchored,
held fast
since the beginning of the World…..

my self, even:

we

Sing,
we.....

are
the Song.

My heart beats hard in my throat,
my blood rushes,

(kin to  the waves at my back)
in my ears.

Measures in the Song.

Without thought,
there is salt upon my cheeks,

tears

warm with life,
leavened by hope,
sighing with redemption.

Rests
within the Song.

Close upon the shore,
a gull stays,

its sea-rough voice
welcoming
a swan-prow'd ship.

A figure,

small
with more than distance,

stands upon the deck.

The sun-blessed Bridge
within the Song.

___________________

Somehow, between the Sun and the Moon, somehow, between the
rising of the one and the setting of the other, I
found the path.  And the tales which were told sang
with crystal and adamant and bell-clear nights and shocking-summer-sky days. 

Back from otherwhen I came, then, and the stars welcomed me,
and the leaves smelt of Home and autumn and tea taken
in the warm clutter of my study.

And in my mind I see the round of the window,
and hear the bairns at play in the sweet morning of the row…


He is asleep now, and dreaming,

dreaming
of Home.

And I take his hand {the hurt one} 
(for now that he is Home, he  assuredly will not notice)
and wonder,

again,
that such a small person might have done such wondrous things.

The Light is all about him,
the Song

runs like current
from his hand to mine.

Sleep well, my lord.