The Rose

Foreword, by Frodo Gardner
23 Solmath, 1494 SR

Shortly after my father sailed, Elanor discovered a poem on a loose sheet of parchment tucked into the pages of the Red Book. The parchment had been folded and unfolded many times and the creases were worn so thin that it was torn in many places, and it was much wrinkled. On the back of the parchment, in blue ink as faded as the black ink of the poem itself and equally difficult to read, was this rather odd list, written in our father’s slow round hand:

cumin – ground to powder
ribbons
that yellow sour fruit
ash box for Arwen
10 o’clock at

This list lends us to believe that this poem was written in Minas Tirith while the Travellers lived there after the War. The ash box would be a box made of ash wood to be given to Queen Arwen, of which Hamfast and Daisy at least have some vague recollection of being told about once when they were young. The yellow sour fruit would be lemons, of which we have all heard about numerous times in our youth and now even have the delight to taste ourselves since Tom brought back some seeds to grow our own lemon trees when he journeyed to Minas Tirith last year. The sudden and abrupt ending of the list makes us believe that it was at this point our father realized upon what he was writing his list and so ceased to do so.

As for the poem itself, none of us have any recollection of it whatsoever. We soon came to the conclusion that our father must have kept it on his person at all times and, for whatever reason, chose not to share it with any of us. Whether he shared it with Mother or not is impossible to determine. When Thain Peregrin and Master Meriadoc read it, shortly before their final journey, they too did not recognize it and could not remember our father ever speaking about it.

One thing is certain: our father did not write it. Neither did Frodo Baggins. The handwriting is altogether unfamiliar to all of us. The serious tone of the poem also is proof that a hobbit did not write it, and although the later poems of Frodo Baggins were serious in tone they were also dark in nature, which this poem is not. Certainly our father had no influence in the actual writing of it, for his poems at least were forever carefree and silly things, even after all the horrors he witnessed during the War. The poem also does not appear to have been written specifically for our father, for if it had been he never would have made the mistake of scribbling on it.

Peregrin and Meriadoc felt that the poem was perhaps written in dedication to the Travellers, all of whom longed to return home and see their gardens again. They stipulated that the poem was likely written down by a scribe or bard, of which there were many living in the city in the months following the War. They also indicated that it could have just as easily been written by anyone whom the hobbits met and spoke to during those days, or even any of the many guests and emissaries that came into the city at that time from all over Gondor, Rohan, Ithilien, Harondor and Harad and other such places. They also told us that the Travellers had received many gifts, most of which came by delivery to their home in the city and many of those were sent anonymously by a grateful populace who wished for no recognition of their gifts, for anything they sent the Travellers could little compare to the gift of freedom the Ring-bearers had given them. So it appears the poem could have been written by anyone from anywhere at any time during the Travellers’ stay in the city.

Still, Tom did his best to track down the author of the poem when he and his wife Athelas traveled to Minas Tirith last year. He took the poem with him and together they asked all of the Travellers’ friends who yet lived and might have some knowledge of the gift.

They then searched the Citadel Archives, thinking perhaps if the poem was written by a bard, then more of that bard’s work might be housed there. They looked through too many scrolls to count and at last came to a set of eight scrolls, written in a hand nearly similar to that of the poem. The scrolls told of war and plague and death, and one poem, to their astonishment, appeared to be a sister to the poem of which our father had possession, for many of the words and phrases were similar, and most of the same themes were repeated, though in very different fashion. Even the titles are the same. Alas, that none of these scrolls were signed.

When Tom and Athelas took these scrolls to the archivist, the mystery only deepened for the archivist told them that those scrolls have been housed in the archives for many hundreds of years. So either our father stole that poem from the archives after he accidentally scribbled upon it – an unlikely event! – or he channeled the spirit of the dead scribe and actually did write it himself in the scribe’s handwriting – also equally unlikely, no matter what Primrose and Bilbo might think.

The archivist told Tom that it was not uncommon for bards to seek inspiration from earlier works and at any rate they could often be seen in the archives, poring over old scrolls for their research. The archivist then looked up the old ledgers of visitors from the time the Travellers were living in the city, however, all of those visitors were now passed away. King Elessar suggested that since many bards are also trained in calligraphy, that the bard, for whatever reason wanting his or her gift to be anonymous, had not only sought inspiration from the poem found in the archive but had then also imitated that original bard’s handwriting as best he or she could. He also supposed that the scribe of both poems could be an elf, who would have by now sailed over the Seas.

In short, as this explanation should have been from the start, the author remains unknown and when exactly our father came into possession of the poem will also remain a mystery. Whatever the answers to those questions might be, it is clear that our father treasured it and that he, at the last, decided it best to leave it here with us than to take it with him. Elanor finds hope in this, for none of us, as much as we miss him, would want our father pining for the Shire now that he is at last reunited with his master in Valinor.

Tom copied the poem that he and Athelas found in the Citadel Archives and that is given here first, since we believe it to be the original. The second poem is the one which our father carried with him. Remarks in parentheses are my own.
 
 
 

The Rose, author Unknown (possibly translated into Westron)

Red pale petals moist and full, soft to touch
They smile at me with sweetness, shiver in the wind
A secret they hide behind the ivory gate
But it shines out bright from blazing brown

I sit and stare out this high window
Search in vain for that fragrant bloom
It’s scent is but a memory beyond the dark
Lingering on my skin, clutching my heart

Long I tended it, long I waited
My patience and labor hoping for that bud to flower
Tight and close 'til the weather turns more favorable
At long last it opens to me but I am gone

Does it bloom still? Does it wait for me?
Have the weeds taken it over and withered it?
Will I ever look upon it, this beauty I imagined in my mind,
Or will I return to naked earth devoid of color?

How I long to touch that rose
To drown in its scent and brilliance
To feel its softness and sharpness
To caress those petals moist with morning dew and know bliss

I sit and stare out this high window
And see only stone and flame and darkest night
I sit and stare out this high window
I will never see another May

The Rose, author Unknown (possibly written in 1419 SR, between Astron and Wedmath)

As I sit and stare out this high window
Surrounded by stone cold and grey
I think back to a closed rosebud
I left behind that long ago day

Long I tended it with caring touch
Long I waited with patience kind
Sank my hands into fragrant earth
Awaiting the time for which I’ve pined

A pale grey morn of weather fair
Dewdrops from dark green petals spill
The tight closed bud begins to yawn
My labor done, hope springs from the till

Bold red blossoms moist and full
Reveal its hidden depths so lush
A hint of fragrance soft and sweet
Upon the wind from the bloom’s warm blush

Color so bright the blossom smiles
Shines out blinding from pale brown earth
Blooming for me as I so dreamed
Filling my heart with beauty and mirth

Yet fear and darkness called me away
Before I could see my toil fulfilled
I never saw that closed bud bloom
It blossomed alone ‘gainst all I willed

So I sit and stare out this high window
And search in vain the gathering dark
For a bloom that lives only in dreams
To touch my thoughts and clutch my heart

How I long to touch that simple rose
To fill my eyes with its scarlet folds
To smell its scent strong and pure
A brilliant splendor to behold

I wonder if it blossoms still
Or if it has yet faded away
Do weeds entwine round its roots
Or do rains give life to it this May*

Will it wait for me before it withers
So I can look upon its beauty once
Or will it fail as sun sinks low
Devoid of care for too many months

For a rose is such a contrary thing
Both sharp and soft, a ruthless grace
Its wildness untamed can cut and tear
Yet a child’s hand can bind it with lace

I will hope to see it one day soon
Beaming out from its earthly bed
I will touch that soft and silky bloom
And ignore its blood-like hue of red.
 

(* - This is not, I believe, a hint of when the poem was written. I believe instead that the author chose this month for the rhyme and because it was used in the original poem. Be that as it may, it is quite likely that it was indeed written in Thrimidge.)

GF 2/24/07