Five Poems by Philip Dodd

 

Song For Luthien Tinuviel

 

( Inspired by the tale of Beren and Luthien in The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien )

 

Feanor he made the Silmarils,
revealed his power and his skills,
precious jewels of the Elven kind,
majesty moulded from his mind.

Elf maid, Luthien Tinuviel,
danced, held aloft a Silmaril.
I saw her laughing through the trees,
her white dress blowing in the breeze.

Entranced, I was lying on the grass,
saw Elven folk through a shining glass.
I saw Elves the lays of old had sung,
tall Elves from when the world was young.

Feanor, his blue stone tower tall,
faraway, saw behind a wall,
felt I was poor in my heart and soul,
I was a fish, left by the shoal.

Felt I was young, knowing I was old,
I was a sheep, far from fold.
On my quest over wild moor and fen,
I was lost and was lost again.

Unlooked for beauty came to my eye,
Elf maid dancing beneath the sky,
fair Elf the lays of old had sung,
fair Elf from when the world was young.

Luthien Tinuviel held aloft a Silmaril.

 

 

Vala

 

Arm rings and bracelets Odin gave you,
came to your cave, his face hard and grim.
What was, what is to come, you told him.
Was he wise to listen, some may wonder,
to the words of a seeress in a trance,
the one men called Vala,
who lived high above their fields and farms,
so close to the thunder?

Your dark stone statue, stood alone on a stair,
stalled my step. I looked up and saw you.
I will always remember. In Oslo museum we met.
It was summer in Norway.
The silence of sculpture, I will not forget.
Folds in your robe, your hood, I studied,
the lines in your face, your uplifted hands.
Your eyes sealed, so you could see,
blind to be certain nothing from you was hidden.
You made clear to my eye,
north is my land, my sea, my sky.
Bare mountain, cloud hidden glacier,
the sun never thawed,
here I laid anchor, my ship was shored.
Strangely, I loved you, so far, remote from me.
No gifts I had for you, no brooch, no rune stone,
my words alone sculpt a fine memory.

I saw the ship built for burial,
the long sleep of a princess.
She lay with her jewels, her silver crown.
Who knows what the fates will weave in your web?
Her voyage no wind could hinder, no sea could drown.

 

 

Sigurd

 

Listen. Thunder clouds, herds of black bison
stampede silent space.
Wait. Relief of rain.
Hut folk from windows watch
lashed land, hardened face.
Trauma. When storm broke,
something slept in a sudden woke.
Loom weaver mosaic moved,
bright beads changed place.
Wake. Birds spread wings in water.
Air clear. Survivors show gratitude for given grace.
Blow horn. Names of mighty men remain.
Sword of Sigurd the dragon Fafnir slain. 

 

 

Goddess Anahit

 

A flower plucked from the wayside,
a sign scratched on a stone,
among gifts laid by pilgrims
before her mountain throne.

Goddess Anahit they called her,
wise mother of water,
mystic source of peace and wisdom,
dark eyed, dark haired daughter.

Prayed she’d bless the seed in the soil,
the seed in the womb,
and that she would sustain the peace
from cradle to the tomb.

In Armenia her statue,
praised as a holy one,
stood tall in her sacred temple,
but her time has long gone.

British Museum in London,
that is her new address.
Displays the head of her statue,
a relic to impress.

When all the visitors have gone,
the curator alone,
admires the wisdom in her brow,
the beauty in her bone.

From the heaven of the high ones,
Anahit stepped down slow,
to see the head of her statue.
She knew the way to go.

The curator felt her presence
but could not see her face.
She loved the craft in her carving,
its sympathy and grace.

It was time to lock the last door,
hear the curator sigh.
The keys are cold in his pocket.
A star lifts to the sky. 

 

 

The Land That Is And Yet Is Not

 

Welcome on board our barge,
feel it glide by its own will.
The canal is broad and long,
the water clear, deep and still.
Through the trees, now we spot
towers old as Camelot.
As promised, we enter now
the land that is and yet is not.
Red deer graze on meadow grass,
a woman holds a shining glass.
When you were a child in your cot,
you may have smiled to see
the land that is and yet is not.
Remember when you woke in winter
to find all the sky was snowing,
and you read the lines of Tennyson,
faint and far, you strained to hear,
the horns of Elfland blowing,
and Alice led you through the looking glass,
Jack Rowland to what lay beyond
the clouded mountain mass.
Round the hill, almost there,
you may meet your true love at the fair.
Over the hills and faraway
lies the friendly inn
where when enchanted you can stay.
Relax, let the tale begin,
we float further in than Tam Lin.
Note how the plants and trees
look more real than those seen before,
how the swans seem to be from another shore.
Distant horsemen ride to and fro
where you and I can never go.
The canvas is clean, the page has no blot,
we are now well within
the land that is and yet is not.

Philip Dodd was born in 1952, lives in Liverpool, England, and has a degree in English literature from Newcastle University. He is the author of four books, Anger War, Klubbe the Turkle and the Golden Star Coracle, Still the Dawn: Poems and Ballads, and Last Flocks of the Geese. He has had poems published in The Dawntreader and other poetry magazines.