Pete/Tolkien: Poetry Wars
Mar. 21st, 2005 03:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
peterjacksonSo, I've got this little journal I sometimes scribble in. Just random thoughts, funny things that occur to me, and when I'm feeling clever... bad poetry. A few days back, I wrote this little ditty down and stuffed the journal back on the shelf. Didn't think much more about it.
Roses are red
Orcs are not blue
Rosie is sweet
And Sam likes her stew.
When I got up the next morning, I saw the journal lying open on my desk, and in that old familiar spider-scrawl, this was added below my poem. I remember reading this one back when I was researching the films.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
Well, if I needed a clear sign that our illustrious old man was back in action in Wellington, this was it. Okay, old man, that’s not bad prose, I’ll grant you. But geez, obvious much? Roots, and light, give us a little credit! Still, there’s something to that rhythm and beat, if I change the topic to something everyone can identify with... hmm. I read his poem through one more time, and then I go for the re-write, cause hell, re-writes are my life, right?
All that is soup does not simmer
Not all those who ladle are lost
The old that is strong should get pitched out
Deep pots take a day to defrost.
From the stove top a fire shall be woken
A light from the burner shall spring
Renewed is my recipe from Hoboken,
The soupless shall eat the whole thing.
Smugly, I shut the journal and set it aside, chuckling at my wit. That should hush him up and keep him out of my random musings.
Or so I thought. The next morning brought out his sillier side. And that old goofy Hobbit song. Cripes.
Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!
O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.
O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed
but better is beer if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.
O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so sweet
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
Okay, Very cute, have to admit I've always liked that one, it stays away from the lofty ancient histories and doom and woe. But Tolkien, my man, it’s "Oh", not "O". Geez, that abbreviation always bugs me! Okay, time for a retort, and I'm gonna fight soap with... soap.
Oh! My feet are stinky
From heel to toe
So into the bathtub
Is where I shall go
My soap on a rope
Is fun to let swing
It gives my skin hope
Makes me feel like a King!
And now I’m all scrubbed
And wrapped in a towel
This poem may be flubbed
But yours was quite foul.
Hah. I should send that one to Reader's Digest.
But the silly streak seemed to be short lived, cause the next attack was one of those ghastly lofty things that always make my head hurt.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!
O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft!
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bare aloft!
O rowan dead, upon your head your haif is dry and grey;
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
What did I tell you about the "O" word? And quite frankly, my dear graying shift, this sounds dangerously close to Vogon poetry. Let me try to jazz it up for you. Brace yourself, Mister T.
O Larry, Moe and Curly!
O humor fair, upon your hair how black the sledgehammer lay!
O antics groovy, I saw your movie upon a summer's day,
Your wit so bright, your jokes so light, your tones so nasal and snarky!
Upon Larry's head how golden-red got pummeled for spouting malarky!
O pratfalls plenty, each scene brings twenty, your style just makes my day;
Your crown is cracked, your face is smacked for ever and a day.
O Larry, Moe and Curly!
The next morning, I found my journal in the garbage can, with no retaliation prose added to it. I so win. Never underestimate the power of the Three Stooges. I think I'll celebrate with a film-fest in my playroom. Let's see. "Punch Drunks", "Idiots Deluxe" and "Half-Wits' Holiday". Sounds like a fine afternoon to me!
Roses are red
Orcs are not blue
Rosie is sweet
And Sam likes her stew.
When I got up the next morning, I saw the journal lying open on my desk, and in that old familiar spider-scrawl, this was added below my poem. I remember reading this one back when I was researching the films.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
Well, if I needed a clear sign that our illustrious old man was back in action in Wellington, this was it. Okay, old man, that’s not bad prose, I’ll grant you. But geez, obvious much? Roots, and light, give us a little credit! Still, there’s something to that rhythm and beat, if I change the topic to something everyone can identify with... hmm. I read his poem through one more time, and then I go for the re-write, cause hell, re-writes are my life, right?
All that is soup does not simmer
Not all those who ladle are lost
The old that is strong should get pitched out
Deep pots take a day to defrost.
From the stove top a fire shall be woken
A light from the burner shall spring
Renewed is my recipe from Hoboken,
The soupless shall eat the whole thing.
Smugly, I shut the journal and set it aside, chuckling at my wit. That should hush him up and keep him out of my random musings.
Or so I thought. The next morning brought out his sillier side. And that old goofy Hobbit song. Cripes.
Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!
O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.
O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed
but better is beer if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.
O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so sweet
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
Okay, Very cute, have to admit I've always liked that one, it stays away from the lofty ancient histories and doom and woe. But Tolkien, my man, it’s "Oh", not "O". Geez, that abbreviation always bugs me! Okay, time for a retort, and I'm gonna fight soap with... soap.
Oh! My feet are stinky
From heel to toe
So into the bathtub
Is where I shall go
My soap on a rope
Is fun to let swing
It gives my skin hope
Makes me feel like a King!
And now I’m all scrubbed
And wrapped in a towel
This poem may be flubbed
But yours was quite foul.
Hah. I should send that one to Reader's Digest.
But the silly streak seemed to be short lived, cause the next attack was one of those ghastly lofty things that always make my head hurt.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!
O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day,
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft!
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bare aloft!
O rowan dead, upon your head your haif is dry and grey;
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day.
O Orofarne, Lassemista, Carnimirie!
What did I tell you about the "O" word? And quite frankly, my dear graying shift, this sounds dangerously close to Vogon poetry. Let me try to jazz it up for you. Brace yourself, Mister T.
O Larry, Moe and Curly!
O humor fair, upon your hair how black the sledgehammer lay!
O antics groovy, I saw your movie upon a summer's day,
Your wit so bright, your jokes so light, your tones so nasal and snarky!
Upon Larry's head how golden-red got pummeled for spouting malarky!
O pratfalls plenty, each scene brings twenty, your style just makes my day;
Your crown is cracked, your face is smacked for ever and a day.
O Larry, Moe and Curly!
The next morning, I found my journal in the garbage can, with no retaliation prose added to it. I so win. Never underestimate the power of the Three Stooges. I think I'll celebrate with a film-fest in my playroom. Let's see. "Punch Drunks", "Idiots Deluxe" and "Half-Wits' Holiday". Sounds like a fine afternoon to me!
