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The Great Hall of Poets – February 2015

In the Mist Upon the River

by Mrs Adam C.

In the mist upon the river
Still I stand and silent shiver
As the reed beds wind-swept quiver
In the wind upon the river.

In the wind upon the river
Silver foams the waters driven
By a slender vessel riven
Wreathed in mist upon the river.

Wreathed in mist upon the river
Grey the vessel silent drifting
Twisting currents ever shifting
Borne upon the flowing river.

Borne upon the flowing river
Turns the Elven vessel, staying
Motionless its burden laying
Lapped within the crystal river.

Lapped within the crystal river
Lies a pale warrior sleeping
Shredded mist about him creeping
Still before me on the River.

Still before me on the river
Marked with numerous wounds bitter
In his dark hair droplets glitter
Tossed like jewels by the river.

Tossed like jewels by the river
Are the tears that bathe my brother
Vain I wish it was another
Borne in death upon the river.

Borne in death upon the river
Clasped with leaves of golden shimmer
In his hands his blade-shards glimmer
Washed clean by the flowing river.

Washed clean by the flowing river
Long dark locks with care arrayed
At his head his round shield laid
Shining faintly in the river.

Shining faintly in the river
Emerald brooch wrought ‘neath the trees
His cloak grey-green as linden leaves
Woven with the rippling river.

Woven with the rippling river
Strands of radiance faintly glowing
Like the water round him flowing
Dreaming vision of the river.

Dreaming vision of the river
Granted peace and victory
Beneath your feet, your enemies
Lost to darkness in the river.

Lost to darkness in the river
Your great horn you no longer bear
From distant lands silent you fare
Slipping swiftly down the river.

Slipping swiftly down the river
Slowly spinning your grey boat turns
Borne away never to return
Upon the bosom of the river.

Upon the bosom of the river
Fading the ethereal gleam
Yet I know it was no dream
My brother lost unto the river.

My brother lost unto the river
Passing onward to the sea
There to sleep eternally
In the mist upon the river.

In the mist upon the river
Still I stand and silent shiver.
As the reed beds wind-swept quiver
In the wind upon the river.

~~ * ~~

Khazâd Ai-Mênu!

by Mirelien

The sun glinted off armor of gold
As the thirteen leapt to defend their mountain.
Thorin commanded them, King in his majesty;
Behind him his sister-sons, bearing shield and sword.
Courageous contenders for Erebor’s glory
Against a great army ten thousand orcs strong.

But Thorin was brave, and his bold arm strong.
Long had he waited to reclaim his gold
And now would he win it by works of glory,
Take his throne as rightful King under Mountain:
Raven-crown, Arkenstone, even the Elvish sword
Would seat him in Erebor, accent his majesty.

At his side Fili, heir of his majesty,
Stood at the ready, his lionheart strong
With love for the uncle who forged his first sword.
Armor and hair ‘neath the sun shone bright gold;
Worth more than all treasure in the mountain
His uncle held him and his bright glory.

Kili the valiant came next—not for glory
Fought he, but rather to guard Thorin’s majesty
And that of Erebor, tall Lonely Mountain,
New-found home. Hope made his arm strong
To strike at his foes who would steal the gold
If he failed to keep it with Dwarvish sword.

Dwarvish and Elvish, Mannish and orc sword
Flashed in the sunlight, steel-cold glory.
Silver drew scarlet, streaking the gold
Of heart, hair, and helm, marring their majesty
But not destroying. Their arms were strong
And deadly their blows in defense of their mountain.

At last the long battle ended. A mountain
Of fallen, both friend and foe, stolen by sword
And arrow and axe in the hands of the strong.
Long will the minstrels spin songs of their glory,
Long will they tell of the Durinsons’ majesty,
Striving for hope, for a home and for gold.

All hail the sword and its glittering glory,
All hail the gold in its myriad majesty—
All hail the strong, the Heirs of the Mountain!

~~ * ~~

Choice

by BlackFox

Under starless sky, grey and cold,
the Tree of Time stands bare and old.
All the countless years now death’s to greet,
like withered leaves laid at winter’s feet.
For the world has changed, be it ill or good,
and light has left the Golden Wood.
So it is this land ere rich and fair,
once a wonder, a sight so rare,
now mourns in everlasting silence
days when sun was gold and stars were diamonds,
when rivers ran with song and magic,
when hearts were bold, though hope was fragile.
For tho’ the Enemy down was cast,
the joy was never meant to last.
Wind brought change and withering,
took the Queen and took the King.
Nights grew long and forests quiet,
shadows woke from dreams defiant.
Now all there’s left are rain and sorrow,
few lonely souls, no bow, no arrow.
They wander the paths under the fading trees,
hearts gnawed by an eternal unease:
to linger on in wait of doom or fly, depart,
to wane with the earth or break apart.
For spring again will never come
and yet still too sweet the memories are for some.

~~ * ~~

Thranduil the Elvenking

by Eilif

Thranduil, the Elvenking
On meadows walks in early spring…
His mind – focused on the treasure hoard?
Yet engrossed in green… the Elvenking,
Thranduil, the old Mirkwood lord.

When dark descends and stars shine bright
Through closed eyes, still king Thranduil
Brightly remembers, in spite of his might –
He crosses the slopes of Emyn Muil…

He sees the horrors of the Dark Land
Remembers the omnipresent death
Remembers Sauron’s deadly hand
Just like his father’s dying breath…

And back in time – the Thousand Caves,
The merrymaking – and despair,
The songs and laughter – and the graves,
For all there’ve perished that was fair.

And now, with eyes still shut in pain
Seated upon his carven throne
His father’s name he calls in vain,
Himself in power, wisdom grown.

Ancient and strong, and yet alone
For memories solitude him bring.
Under the stars, on Woodland throne
There weeps Thranduil, the Elvenking.

~~ * ~~

Heir of Durin

by Brianna L.

His long hair is streaked with silver,
For the anger and loss he has borne
His broad shoulders are bowed with grief,
His princes braids are shorn

His kingdom was taken by Smaug,
On that fateful day
He asked the elves for help;
They turned and went their way.

Heir of Durin, Son of Kings
Dwarf prince without a home
His greatest hope to retake Erebor,
The splendor and glory of his people restore

But he fears to enter that mountain,
He saw the power of Smaug
But more than that, he fears the gold;
A sickness lies over that treasure hoard.

At the battle to reclaim Moria,
The Defiler showed his face
Unchallenged, he killed and wrought destruction
Wielding a blade and a five edged mace.

The dwarves, they were outnumbered
Leaderless, they fled
Thrain was lost and seen no more,
Azog cut off King Thror’s head

That moment was when Thorin,
Full of rage and grief
Stood against the Defiler,
Of all vile orcs he was the chief

Wielding nothing but an oaken branch,
He stood and fought alone
He earned the name of Oakenshield,
And drove them back to the halls of stone.

The King under the Mountain,
Son of Thrain, son of Thror
Heir of Durin, Son of Kings
Rightful Lord of Erebor

Thorin took it on himself to reclaim their rightful home
There was no choice, not for him
The lonely mountain, Erebor,
He entered through the hidden door.

When he saw the gold which shining lay,
Gems and mithril, bright as day
His greatest fear came true,
The dragon sickness fell on him.

Thorin rose in the end and he threw off
The lust for treasure, the cursed dragon gold;
He fought to the death and defeated his foe
Azog the Defiler he laid low.

But alas, he would never see the time
When Erebor was restored,
Thorin Oakenshield died that day
By the hand of Azog, whom he had slain.

Alas for the heir of Durin,
Alas for the fallen king
He lived nobly and died bravely,
Let the bells of Erebor ring.

~~ * ~~