This was written in response to a challenge on Henneth Annûn, which posited that Denethor probably had a sheaf of really bad poetry stuffed into a cupboard somewhere, never mentioned, never seen. It would be metrically brilliant, of course, but emotively dismal. The four poetic forms suggested were linnod, rubaiyat, haiku and sonnet. How could I resist?
I have never yet written a sonnet even Denethor would consider successful, but I substituted one of my favourite kinds of poem: a sestina. If anything it's even crazier. It was invented by the French troubadour Arnaut Daniel, who spent a whole lifetime dreaming up ridiculously complicated and constraining structures and then using them as skeletons for dazzling poems. This one is supposed to have six verses, and only six ending words, repeated in a precise order (a b c d e f --> f a e b d c) from verse to verse. Every line has ten or eleven syllables except for the first of each verse, which has seven.
Only the intellectuals of Gondor would be
stubborn enough to try to write this way.
***
And the steward to his holding
Shall be as a steadfast tower of stone
That stands earthbound yet sees and knows the stars
Reason his guide, not passion's clutching fist
Casting out vain desires, imagined need
Lest his work fail and long planning ravel
Why, then, does my strength ravel
Under the knowing of one gaze holding
Mine? What's this impossible ache of need
I cannot voice? My throat is made of stone.
These eyes unman me as though they were fists.
No comfort the echoing glitter of the stars.
The cool pity of the stars
(The old songs praise) that tangled thoughts ravel
Does but mock my short breath and clenchéd fist.
Wherefore this – now – thus – me captive holding
When on me rests the fate of Gondor's stone?
I'll country keep – and to myself my need.
***
The drowning lacework
Of the mountain stream in spring
Remembers her tears