Tolkiens Arda – Sveriges stora Tolkienforum

själv äter jag pizza med hjälp av en sax och mina bara händer!

Haha nä...


Tack. Jo, det är nog tonårsångest också...

Och nu fårstår jag helt skillnaden mellan Eliotistiska och estetiska dikter.



Man kan äta med händerna också.

Vanja: du har så rätt. En tolkning kan ju aldrig vara fel (möjligen långsökt, men det är en annan femma...)

Beledhel: varsågod så mycket!

Kamelen: jag använder också händerna...

Fëanor: du glömde skriva "jag" med stort J i ditt inlägg där du bland annat kommenterade Ithilwens dikt. Sensation!

(okej, jag vet att man inte ska kommentera andras stavning och dylikt, men jag kunde inte hålla mig... )

i fallet Fëanor utan stort j i Jag är det en sensation.


Vanja:
den dikt var trevlig och tack för de vänliga orden.

Nu har jag knåpat ihop en dikt sedan jag senast var inne. Den rimmar och är inte Eliotistisk . Den tar upp en av mina favoritbitar ur Silmarillion.

Azaghâl's last battle

On the burned wide plain in the far north
black Morgoth fought the fair elvish lords
Belegost's dwarves did too march forth
to face the Dark Lord's orcish hordes

The dwarves from east held Glaurung back
They formed a ring to subdue his might
and awaited the dragon's fierce attack
Their armours and axes were shining bright

An answer with flames he gave them then
but the dwarves did not want to retreat
They endure fire better than men
and their warmasks protected them from the heat

Glaurung was not the only beast there
but he was the greatest of them all
Many brave hearts he filled with despair
but not the dwarves of Azaghâl's hall

They had cast away both angst and fear
and made the ring around the dragon small
They all faced Glaurung even the rear*
to cause the Great Worm's heavy fall

The dragon felt the axes bite
the armours of his foes were strong
Then he attacked with all his might
while the brave dwarves sang their battlesong

Azaghâl was the dwarves' high lord
Walked forward at a slackened pace
he carried axe as well as sword
He met the dragon face to face

Azaghâl's face and beard was covered
by his black and terrible mask
and all the dwarves had just discovered
that killing Glaurung was his task

Azaghâl was thrown on his back
He got under the dragon's chest
Before his eyes the world turned black
but he could not leave for sacred rest

Azaghâl grabbed his hidden knife
he tried to stab the dragon dead
That was the last he did in life
and badly wounded Glaurung fled

Forever this dwarf lives in the poem
of him the dwarves do sadly sing
They carried him away back home
their slain and very valiant king

He is resting now in his ancient mine
in caves and tunnels dark and deep
where neither sun nor moon do shine
Till end of time the king will sleep

*rear=eftertrupp (om någon undrade)

Hoppas ni gillade den!

Fin dikt, Túrin Turambar! Jag gillar den.
Själv håller jag på med en dikt på rim, lägger upp den här om den blir bra (vilket det inte är så stor chans att den blir, eftersom den är på rim...).

Mycket bra. Tummen upp och applåder får du!

Tack det var min första dikt men jag blev inspirerad av forumets idoga poeter. Jag fick brodera ut materialet en aning för att få ut 12 verser av en knapp sida i Silmarillion.

Jättebra Túrin! Jag är så avundsjuk på er människor som kan skriva på rim!

Mycket bra Túrin! Jag ser fram emot fler dikter.

Tack så mycket för berömmet!

Och visst kommer det fler dikter.

Här kommer en till dikt som jag också har skrivit. Den är enligt mig inte lika bra som den första men jag lägger ut den iaf.

Enchanted

They met a pleasant summer night
he was enchanted by her light
Her hair was raven-black and long
her eyes were blue as in a song

Her beauty led him to a well
in a verdant and so peaceful dell
Fair unicorns and silent trees
They both felt the caressing breeze

He wanted the great sun to hide
he would never leave his lady's side
He prayed to the almighty lord
to shield the lady he adored

At dawn's first light they heard a horn
he remembered what his foes had sworn
His enemies were on his trace
he watched his darling's anxious face

He armed himself and grabbed his sword
and went to the river's only ford
He listened while the river rushed
and wondered why he must be crushed

This has been delayed too long
God of Power make me strong
he called upon the mighty Lord
and wielded skilled his sharpened sword

His prayer reached the God of the Skies
who helped the ancient kings to rise
Immortal courage the knight did gain
his prayers were not all in vain

He fought his seven deadly foes
to save his precious dark-haired rose
She watched the fight from her high hill
she felt like she was very ill

But her champion he slew them all
and by the ford he stood there tall
Afterwards his wounds she healed
and he saw her deepest love revealed

The lady and her beloved knight
lived on forever in the light
of a small enchanted well
in a blessed and peaceful dell

Jag tycker den där var bättre Túrin än den om Azaghal. Visst kanske inte storyn (Jag tycker inte om lyckliga slut), men när det gäller utformandet och versmåttet så var den mycket bättre.

Och när det gäller det uteblivna stora J:et: så vad ska Jag säga? Även egenkära och övermäktiga alvkonungar kan fela ibland. Tro det eller ej!


Här är en dikt som Jag har skrivit om Beren. Den är inspirerad av en rad från Poes dikt To Helen(den långa, prosa-versionen). Ursprungligen så var det tänkt att den skulle handla om en person som vandrade i Dödsskuggans dal, men Jag kom ingen vart, så därför bytte Jag miljö.

Beren's Journey

For days he had been on his way
Through valley dark and dead and cold,
But it would take more to dismay
The son of Barahir the Bold.

And on he went on darksome road
Though hope had left him long ago.
In valley where no water flowed
And where no living things could grow.

He was the first to ever pass
Into that valley, dark and drear.
He could not help to think of grass
In valleys far, (and yet so near).

In valleys where he once did roam.
In days of youth, so long ago.
He thought about his distant home
Where all his hopes had come to woe.

Back where his father was betrayed
To death by a close, trusted friend.
Alone a while there Beren stayed,
Until his fight came to an end.

Beren was forced to leave his home
And into Gorgoroth he fled.
The Land in which he now did roam
In valley cold and dark and dead.

There in the shadows creatures dwelled;
Creatures that filled his heart with dread,
And there at last his heart was quelled,
He cowered down, his last strength fled.

But as he lay there on the ground
He saw through cold and crystal tears,
A lily white upon a mound,
A sight which banished all his fears!

He rose; and proud and tall he stood
The creatures ‘round him fled in fear.
He vowed there that he never would
While yet he lived turn to despair.

So on he went upon his road
And in him bright now hope did glow;
In valley where no water flowed
And where no living things could grow.

But he would not walk alone for long
Upon the dark and lonesome path.
He passed the mountains tall and strong
And came at last to Doriath.

And there he found fair Lúthien
Dancing upon a woodland field,
Too fair for love of mortal men,
And once again his heart did yield.

Här är en till dikt av Mig. Den är skriven på det alviska versmåttet ann-thennath (ABACBABC), och är en konversation mellan Fëanor och Námo i Mandos salar. En konversation i vilken avslöjas att Fëanor är sinnelagsetiker och dessutom inte så erbarmligt envis som många tror.


The words of Fëanor and Námo


Fëanor:

How long must My soul linger here
In the dark Houses of the Dead?
O Námo Great, whom I revere
How long must Curufinwë wait?
It seems like eons since I shed
The Elven blood, a deed severe,
Which ever lies upon My head.
And now I’m here. Was it My fate?

Námo:

Your dreadful deeds were caused by hate,
And by your all-devouring greed.
Nay, son of Finwë, blame not fate!
You can not your sins circumvent!
You made your Elvish Kinsmen bleed
In your great haste and pride irate;
And these my Halls you won’t recede
Until you show me you repent.

Fëanor:

Ill you know Me, Námo Great
If you would have Fëanor plead,
I WILL NOT Myself desecrate,
Your offer fills Me with disgust!
Yes, I made My kinsmen bleed
And yes I rue that deed irate;
But hear Me Námo, and take heed!
I won’t repent! My cause was just.

Námo:

Then how about your other sin?
How you, your brother did deceive.
How you deserted your own kin
Which you unjustly did resent!
Your deed caused many Elves to grieve,
And many died, that should have been,
And these my Halls you will not leave
Until you show me you repent.

Fëanor:

I do not count that as a sin;
Burning the ships in that dark place,
Or abandoning My faithless kin
Which I justly did resent!
My brother, he was false and base,
Malign and treacherous within.
He wanted to usurp My place!
My cause was just. I won’t repent!

Námo:

Why won’t you give in Fëanor?
O foolish prisoner of pride!
And walk once more in Valinor
Together with these sons of thine.
Yes, six of them now here reside,
Because of deeds you would abhor!
They cheated, murdered, stole and lied
And all because your Oath malign.

It broke them slowly, one by one,
And drove them all to deeds most vile,
For which, they all now are undone,
And must abide here in lament.
Because of you, and Morgoth’s guile
They nevermore will see the Sun,
Unless you prove you're versatile
And show me that you can repent!



*Long moment of silence during which Fëanor beholds the broken spirits of his sons*



Fëanor:

So be it, Námo. Be content!
Your words have pierced My fiery heart.
Not long shall you My sons torment
If power to decide is Mine!
To see them tears My heart apart
And therefore I will now repent.
Repentance from My very heart
O Noble Námo will be thine!

I do repent My children’s fall
Which I have caused. Release them now!
As for repentance that is all,
And with that you must be content.
I’m Fëanor, I do not bow
Except for those I love. That’s all!
As for My other "sins" I vow,
I never, ever will repent!

Jättebra, både Fëanor och Túrin!
Fëanor, jag lärde mig många nya ord där. Man tackar för den gratis engelskalektionen!