Mechtild's

This year I have two splendid poems by jan-u-wine to celebrate September 22. On this, the Eve of the Birthday, I am posting a poem she wrote from the point of view of Primula Baggins, newly the mother of little Frodo. It is simply exquisite. (Tomorrow, on the day itself, I will post another gorgeous poem, written from the point of view of Bilbo.)

To illustrate this poem, I have used a detail from William-Adolphe Bouguereau's "The Young Gypsies" (painted 1879). I think it makes an evocative picture of Frodo and his mother, the young woman's face so lovely but melancholy, as if she already intuits what's ahead for her son, the child rosy-cheeked and cherubic, yet gazing directly at the viewer as if an older child were looking out of those eyes -- observant, self-possessed, wise beyond his years and, as yet, fearing nothing.

Birth Day


It rained that day:

Sweet,
gentle grey
misted soft
outside the Great Hall.

I remember.

I walked by the river,
while the clouds
ran,
skirring,
tumbling black
against the sky.

You stirred within me.

Even then, we loved
the depthless
green
shadow of the water's face,
even then, loved
the silvery willow's
bent
arms at rest
upon her brow.

Even then,
before you knew the light,
The Light
knew
you.

It danced
and played
upon the hills
that day….

it wove bands
of blue
and green
and soft-spun red
through the sky.

I suppose you must
have wanted
to touch
those pretty things,
for you turned again,
there,
in the dark inside me,

turned,

as one who longs for home,
and yet must leave it behind…

turned, and struggled
in the warm dark.

It was night,
deep,
black-drowned
night
when I held you
at last.

My child.

My son.

Yes,
I count
your fingers
and touch
each toe
in turn.

There are ten

and

ten.

The soft crown
of your head,
wisp'd by wet
darkness,
smells
of warmth
and spiced sweetness,
your ears
lie like delicate leaves
against the pink-and-white
of your face.

My thumb
traces
the bow of your brow:

even then,
it was serious,
even then,
raised questioningly
above bright, birth-blinded eyes.

The small, swift song
of your heart
beats
against my hand.

I must laugh
at the sweet roundness
of your belly,
at the soft
rose of your mouth
opening in protested hunger….

I must cry with my love for you.

I sit by the eastern window
and cradle you to my breast.

How many stars there are tonight,
my son.

How bright they are,
all entwined,
lying upon the blessed bridge
of the sky.

Somehow,
I know that you
will love them,
as I do.

With the moon
glancing,
sharp
through the window's
casement,
I sing you a song
of Eärendil.

He was a sailor of a far-off Sea,
my son,

a mariner,
whose bark now voyages
within azurite night
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You sleep,
safe
within
the circle of my arms.

I am glad you are here,
at last,

at last,

my little one.

~ Second 2009 Birthday post: jan-u-wine's "Heir to the Dreamer" plus new Frodo manip.



Other Links :

Mechtild's LJ entries featuring poems by jan-u-wine HERE.

All of jan-u-wine's Middle-earth poetry, featured at LOTR Scrapbook, HERE.