Welcome to The Great Hall of Poets, our regular feature showcasing the talent of Middle-earth fans. Each month we will feature a small selection of the poems submitted, but we hope you will read all of the poems that we have received here in our Great Hall of Poets.
So come and join us by the hearth, and enjoy!
If you have a Tolkien/Middle-earth inspired poem you’d like to share, then send it to firstname.lastname@example.org One poem per person may be submitted each month. Please make sure to proofread your work before sending it in. TheOneRing.net is not responsible for poems posting with spelling or grammatical errors.
by: Tom Frye
The long road lies before you, a far journey to reach your goal. Miles of endless traveling, but take comfort, O weary Soul. Though you may seem from nowhere, Where you stand and where you’ve been It’s slow and steady progress, not a race that you must win. All short-cuts with little traveling, lead nowhere in the end. So, if the road seems long, now. And the journey much too tough. Remember, gems and jewels, are cut from rougher stuff. And though it’s quite a struggle, with Apathy a constant foe. It’s the journey on the longer roads, that helps your soul to grow. So stay steady on your journey, and surely you’ll succeed, and claim the golden harvest, where before were only seeds. © Copyright 1999 Tom Frye
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by: Caroline Flynn
Forth rode Earnil, last king of Gondor Upon the Witch-King of Angmar to make war. There ensued a terrible fight, In which the Witch-King appeared and showed forth his might. None could withstand the terror of his onslaught, But Earnil, undeterred, would have stood and fought Had not his horse fled, being crazed with fear When the Witch-King with a horrible cry drew near. The Witch-King laughed, at what he saw as fright, But then his eyes were stung by a blinding light. Turning his horse, away he sped, Even as he mocked, into the darkness he fled. He who had subjected lands and realms to his rule And of Sauron’s servants was the most feared and cruel, Could not withstand one who had beheld the Two Trees And walked in lands beyond the Sundering Seas. For Glorfindel had come up from Rivendell; Bright was his sword, his eyes fey and fell. He who of old had grappled with Shadow and Flame, Unveiled his power, and with renewed might he came. As Earnil rode back, chafing with anger and hate, Glorfindel, gazing into the dusk, foresaw the Enemy’s fate, Stretching far into the long years ahead. Turning to the captain, he withheld him and said: “Do not pursue him – far off yet is his doom! And much more must be accomplished before the gathering of that gloom. Not by the hand of man will he be slain: Rather, the unlooked-for will arise and be his bane.” And so it was, that the prophecy was spoken, Though many years passed before it was awoken, During the great battles fought for the One Ring, And the Nazgul were sent forth, led by the Witch-King. Despair and darkness he spread, wherever he went, And the body of Theoden King apart he rent. But then with an opponent he stood face to face, Who was unafraid of the unseen eyes and deadly mace. “Begone foul lord of carrion!” the clear voice spoke. “Let him lie in peace!” “Stand not between me and my prey,” came the cold reply, “else you will go to where there is no release.” There was sharp ring as was drawn a sword. “No living man may hinder me!” laughed the lord. Thus was spoken the prophecy of long ago, The selfsame one spoken by his deadly foe. Doubt entered the Nazgul’s mind as sun gleamed on golden hair, And he was reminded of Glorfindel the fair. “No man am I!” a woman’s voice returned, And in Eowyn of Rohan’s eyes a fearless light burned. The fell beast of the Witch-King reared up and rose, Its rider furious that anyone should dare him oppose. But Eowyn leapt aside, and clove off the beast’s head, And from the ruin rose the dark and deadly Dread. With a mighty stroke he broke her arm and clove her shield, And it looked as though he would triumph upon Pelennor Field. But in that hour Eowyn stood not alone, And in the darkness another desperate courage shone. From behind a sword pierced the sinews of the Witch-King’s knee, And with a despairing cry, from his terror the world was set free. Neither swordsman tall nor warrior strong Had done this deed so worthy of song. Only Merry the Hobbit, from the humble Shire Out of love had helped the maiden in her need so dire. And so it was: not by the hand of man did the Witch-King fall But at the hand of a woman of the Golden Hall And by a dagger taken from the tomb of a barrow-wight, Wound with spells for his demise, in that long-ago fight. ~~ * ~~