Galadriel beyond the Seas in blissful Valinor was born,
Where she beheld in fairest morn the awesome splendor of the trees.
Yet then there blew a colder breeze: for Melkor left Aman forlorn.
He stole the jewels, the trees left torn; and all the Noldor’s blood did
freeze.
When Fëanor on that grim day the standard of rebellion raised,
Galadriel his purpose praised and joined the rebels’ proud array.
Galadriel revolt, you say? Rewriting soon left readers dazed,
Galadriel herself amazed, who got another rôle to play!
No longer led this queen a host of Elves across the Grinding Ice,
For soon there rolled authorial dice that set her down beside the coast
Where ships she boarded with a boast (in spite of Manwe’s good advice)
To make those rebels pay the price -- the very ones she’d helped the
most!
So she arrived in Middle-earth, and led her quite bewildered band
Across the hills to Thingol’s land, wherein she met an Elf of worth.
Then Celeborn she wed in mirth, though soon she came to understand
(Herein our author took a hand) she’d wed him in her land of birth!
With Celeborn secure in tow, with mem’ries spinning in her head,
And wond’ring when she’d really wed, she marched to meet a fearsome foe,
Whose presence she had felt to grow in eastern lands with waxing
dread.
So to Eregion she led some Elves to live in valleys low.
Now Celebrimbor thought he ruled that land wherein the Holly grew,
But suddenly our author’s view of Celebrimbor changed and cooled.
He was no King, just someone schooled in arts, a craftsman brave and
true.
Galadriel received her due, became the Queen, and was not fooled
When Sauron the Deceiver came to offer Celebrimbor aid
In finding fame that would not fade. But then again, she bears the
blame
For saying nothing of the game which smiling Sauron slyly played
With that unwitting smith who made the rings to his eternal shame.
Yet all the same perhaps we find a reason why Galadriel
Did not soon sound the warning bell: For visions swirled within her mind,
Of really most distracting kind: a journey southwards, strange to tell,
That had to do with Nimrodel, for whom her dear son Amroth pined.
But what she never could get straight, was if that boy were really hers!
Another tale, you see, avers, that Amroth had been King of late
In Lorien, an Elven state. At last Galadriel incurs
What such bewilderment confers: a nervous breakdown was her fate!
Now when she fell from sentient bliss, ’twas Doctor Freud her case
perused.
Untangling memories confused, he said, "I’ve *just* the cure for this:
Industrial-strength analysis!" So through her manias he then
cruised,
For each delusion was enthused, no contradiction did he miss.
As circling decades onward rolled, he gradually restored her sense
And brought her round to some pretense of sanity as once of old.
So when at last our author told another story of defence
’Gainst evil forces strong and dense, Galadriel stood tall and bold!
In Lorien this queen was active, and gave of her great wisdom’s store.
Yet lasting scars she ever bore from former trials profoundly factive.
So when she spurned the lure attractive of The one Ring which Frodo wore
We watched in horror from the floor as she just went plain radioactive!
(There is a short story of Rudyard Kipling’s, in which he speculates on what
happens when an author of fiction passes on to that great scriptorium in the
sky and meets his creations who appear exactly as he described them. One
particular author is promptly attacked by a female character whom he depicted
as blue-eyed on page ten and brown-eyed on page two-hundred -- the furious lady
is condemned to wander for all eternity with one blue eye and one brown.
Other characters are even more horribly deformed thanks to inadvertently
contradictory description. One wonders what reproaches Galadriel might
heap upon her (sub-)creator for saddling her with those contradictions which
we’ve been discussing -- surely enough to have the dear lady, trying to sort
out whether or not she’s Amroth’s mother, in psychoanalysis for many
years...)
__________________________________
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
