Poems from the Wild

More poetry based on The Hobbit…
 

A Hill Full of Goblins

In the cunning minds of goblins

There are uncomfortable devices,

Ingenious engines of noise and flame,

Countless contraptions, cold and creaking,

Chains, games, and hob-nailed toes

Made for tormenting their unlucky foes.
 

But the worst such goblin mind

To scheme and snicker in the dark

Is twisted and tumultuous,

Petty, pernicious, and parsimonious,

The very foul and convoluted one

Belonging to his Bloated Highness,

The Great and Mighty Goblin King.
 

He lives under the misting mountains

Where the stone-giants undertake

Rough, rock-throwing revelries.

And he, the cruel Great Goblin

Catches and snatches unwary travellers

To put in his dank, polluted caves.
 

So when you cross a hilly trail

Or take a tunnel far beneath one

Be sure to search it carefully

Lest it be full of Goblin Kings,

Or other old, unpleasant things.

  

The Curses of Wargs
 

The curses of the savage wargs

Are like the howling hexes

That wolves cast upon the night,

Except more dire and unrelenting.

Some curses they learned from goblins,

Ugly magic stolen from the dark.

Some curses they themselves invented

As they prowled through pinewoods,

Stomping on clumps of sorrel

And crushing sweet strawberries

Beneath their calculating claws.
 

New curses they learned from fire

When Gandalf ensorcelled pinecones

And sent uncanny, swirling flames

Amid the Misty Mountain pack.

Those curses, they will remember.
 

Beorn

There is something in the bear

That wants to be a man,

To live in oak-wood lodgings

And speak to other travellers

In the twisting human tongue.
 

But there is something in the man
That wants to be a bear,

To crack the honeyed hives,

To scatter bees,

To knock down trees,

To sit upon the quiet Carrock,

And contemplate the honeyed moon.
 

Some Hobbit Poetry

For those inspired by the new Hobbit movie – and also for those disappointed by it – here are some of my poems, based on the early chapters of the book.

 

 

Gandalf at Bag-End

 

The Wandering Wizard,

Caught in his Silver Scarf

Approaches old Bag-End

In the Market for a Burglar. 

Gandalf, the Pilgrim Grey,

Who Forged the Fireworks

That Kindled Hobbit Hearts

And Lingered in Memory

Like Burning Laburnums.

 

Elusive as his Pipe-Smoke,

He Appears and Vanishes.

Beneath his Blue Hat’s Brim

His Eyebrows Bristle Boldly,

But in his Sorcerous Thought,

He Hatches Cunning Schemes

And Plots Unlikely, Heroic Deeds.

 

 

Tea with Dwarves

 

A little Beer,

Baked Seed-Cakes,

A Jug of Coffee,

Hot from the Hearth,

Red Wine for the Wizard,

Mince-Pie, Pork-Pie,

Jam and Cheese and Tarts,

Strong Ale and More Cakes,

Chicken, Eggs, and Pickles,

Chips on Fine Glasses,

Cracks on Old Plates,

New-Broken Bottles,

Hot-Roasted Corks,

Smoke-Rings Twisting,

Dwarf-Songs in the Dark,

The Chanting of Wanderers

The Strumming of Harps,

Memories of Dragons,

Memories of Gold,

Tales of Old Days

By Thorin’s Company Told.

A Banquet for a Burglar,

A Feast for a King,

Memories of Sorrows,

Lost Lives and Lost Things.

Tales of Old Days

By Thorin’s Company Told,

In the Home of a Hobbit,

Bilbo Baggins, the Bold.

 

 

Dragon-Smoke

The Wicked Worm,

The Dragon Smaug,

Who Shatters Pines

And Feasts on Dwarves

And Sleeps

And Sleeps on Mighty Heaps

Of Pale and Dusty Gold.

 

He Broods of Young Mortals

He Stole from Midnight Dale,

In his Lonely Mountain

That Echoes

With Crumbling Kingdoms

And Curses

Whispered in the Fiery Air.

 

Old Smaug, the Terrible,

Marked in Bright Red

Upon the Mountain,

Upon the Musty Map,

That Leads

Straight to his Doorstep.

And to Death, or to Glory,

In the Mountain’s Mouth.

 

 

Rivendell

 

Across the Narrow Bridge

The Ponies Lightly Pass

The Dwarves Trod Slowly

The Mischievous Elves,

However, Laugh,

And Sing their Summer Songs.

 

Through the Valley, into the House,

They bring their Map to Elrond.

And by the Light of Crescent Moon,

The Wise Lord Reads the Ancient Runes.

 

The Letters Marked by Silver Pens

In Ancient Days by Bearded Dwarves

Give up their Secrets Silently,

Telling of a Knocking Thrush,

And Durin’s Day, and Keyholes.