Mechtild (mechtild) wrote,
Mechtild
mechtild

Happy Birthday, Frodo: "She" by jan-u-wine, painting by Gustav Klimt.

~*~




~ from Gustav Klimt's "The Three Ages of Woman", 1905.

It's been a while, hasn't it? Real life has taken its toll, not to mention writerly inertia. But how could we not celebrate the Bagginses' birthday? I know it's not till tomorrow, but it's already the 22nd in England, so why not? I am afraid Bilbo will get left out this time, since the poem I'm posting has to do with Frodo and his mother, not Frodo and Bilbo, but I think he will forgive me.

This is the first of several poems I plan to post by jan-u-wine that touch upon Frodo in relation to his parents. For this first poem about his mother, She, I have chosen a familiar image by Klimt. I have always liked the paintings of Austrian Symbolist painter, Gustav Klimt (1862-1918), but I have not thought of his work as expressive of Tolkien. Except as a detail, I would never have chosen this image. The full painting also shows an old woman -- naked, in a posture of despair or anguish, her face in her hand as if stifling a cry or simply not wanting to be seen, even her hair shrouding her face. With her, to the fore, is this beautiful young mother and child. The baby is meant to be a girl, since it's called "The Three Ages of Woman" and there are only three figures: the old woman, the young woman and the baby. To see the full painting, click here.

For the purposes of this post I am ignoring the baby's intended gender. All these years, having seen the mother and child posted with a Frodo fanfic, I have assumed the baby was a boy. The painting cannot be a literal likeness to the Tolkien characters, of course. Some fic writers have imagined Primula Brandybuck as a redhead, some as a blond, others, like jan-u-wine, imagine her with dark hair.

What I love about this image is its mood. It "feels" like Frodo and his mother to me, or the way Frodo remembered his mother. The young mother and child are so serene, surrounded by beautiful patterns of plants and flowers and jewels, as if floating in a sea of beauty. The mother and child appear to be asleep in a state of bliss, drifting in an enchanted pool, a magical embryonic fluid threaded with song and flowers and stars, dreaming together the ebb and flow of shared imagination. Perhaps their early life together was not like this, but I can't help thinking that Frodo's memories would have been a haven to him. Jan-u-wine's poem depicts Frodo remembering his mother, a mother whose love he still can enjoy if only in images so vivid and pure they seem to breathe.

Happy Birthday, Frodo Baggins. When at last you are reunited with those you love, may a star shine on the hour of your meeting.




~*~













She


She
was like
me.

I know it.

I remember her:
all soft, dark hair
melting
to serene,
pale beauty,

all
quick,
clever fingers
and curious eyes,
like the Sea.

I remember
the odd
tilt
of her head
when we
read
together
in dimming
twilight
and how her voice

paused
and
fretted,
high and low
about some phrase
that now I know
she loved.

I remember
how
she would sigh
and look away
when Da and I

tumbled,
wild with laughter,
through the gate,
carelessly wiped feet

muddy
across her floor,
dirty and downcast
as the rogues
we wished to be.

I remember.

She would bite her lip
and the pale pink
would blush to red
and
the red
would rise
into the snow of her cheeks.

I remember
the soft,
tender
roundness of her arms,
the left holding me,
tight, safe
against the steady rhythm
of her heart,
against the billow of her skirt,
the right
deftly
twisting sun-hazed
black-berries from their
hooked vines.

I remember.

I remember
the night they brought her Home.

So far above her
I stood
and watched them
close her eyes.

I did not want them to.

How could we see
each other
if they did that?

Even then,
I remember,

I remember....

her mouth smiled at me,
just a little.

A pale water-lily
caught
in the dark enchantment
of her hair.

Her hand,
slender,
curled like a babe's
inside Da's dark palm.

Her head
rested
trustingly
upon the sturdiness
of his chest.

The heaviness of his arm
still held her,
uselessly,
against the night. .

They are sleeping.

Aren't they?

Soon it will be light
and she will rise,

*they* will rise,

and she will sweeten porridge for me
and Da and I will dig worms from the garden
to catch fish with.

We will run
and chase fire-flies
beneath the heated moon
until we fall,

breathless,
on either
side of her
and she will tell us stories
of long-ago.

They will not go
where I
cannot follow.

_______________

Sometimes,
just
sometimes,
when it is grey outside,
and the rain
runs soft
down the face of the Row....

sometimes,
I take his cloak
and walk
out into the darkness,
into the night
which smells of damp'd fires,
and I remember him.

Sometimes.....

I seek her
in the distant
moon-light
that pours
silver
upon the voice
of the wind,
and sleeps
like a tiny, fragile bird
in the arms of the trees.

She was like me.

I know it.















Previous Frodo entry:

~ Caravaggio: 'The Musicians', plus jan-u-wine's "In the City of the King", 4-30-10.


Other Links:

~ All entries featuring jan-u-wine's poems.

Tags: art, frodo, jan-u-wine, klimt, primula
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