ReVerse

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Heren, you've taken all the good songs already.

But I'll go for the Athelas verse, mercifully short it is.

Original
When the black breath blows
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!

ReVersed
Where a white pause draws
Or life's light shows flaws
Or no dark stays
Go loathsome haze! Go loathsome haze!
Death to the living
Out of peasant's foot giving

Well, who knows how close "loathsome haze" is to an opposite of "beneficial leaf", but at least it rhymes!

Sophia

[HerenIstarion]

Nice to see more participants, and good reversing, Sophia

Heren, you've taken all the good songs already

Besides, there is no obligation not to have a go at poetry already 'ReVersed'. As my office puts on advertisement page every once we have a vacancy, we embrace diversity

cheers

[Sophia the Thunder Mistress]

Bilbo's Man in the Moon poem, reversed by yours truly and Roget's Thesaurus.

Original
There is an inn a merry old inn
beneath an old grey hill,
And there they brew a beer so brown
That the Man in the Moon himself came down
one night to drink his fill

The ostler has a tipsy cat
that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
And up and down he draws his bow,
Now squeaking high, now purring low,
now sawing in the middle.

The landlord keeps a little dog
that is mighty fond of jokes;
When there's good cheer among the guests,
He cocks an ear at all the jests
and laughs until he chokes.

They also keep a horn-ed cow
as proud as any queen;
But music turns her head like ale,
And makes her wave her tufted tail
and dance upon the green.

And O! the rows of silver dishes
and the store of silver spoons!
For Sunday there's a special pair,
And these they polish up with care
on saturday afternoons.

The Man in the Moon was drinking deep,
and the cat began to wail;
A dish and a spoon on the table danced,
The cow in the garden madly pranced,
and the little dog chased its tail.

The Man in the Moon took another mug,
and then rolled beneath his chair;
And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
Till in the sky the stars were pale
and dawn was in the air.

Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
"The white horses of the Moon,
They neigh and champ their silver bits;
But their master's been and drowned his wits,
and the sun'll be rising soon!"

So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead:
He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon
"It's after three!" he said

They rolled the man slowly up the hill
and bundled him into the moon,
While his horses galloped up in rear,
And the cow came capering like a deer,
and a dish ran up with the spoon.

Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
the dog began to roar,
The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
the guests all bounded from their beds
and danced upon the floor

With a ping and a pong the fiddle strings broke!
the cow jumped over the moon,
And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
And the Saturday dish went off at a run
With the silver Sunday spoon.

The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
as the sun raised up her head.
She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
For though it was day, to her surprise
They all went back to bed!


Reversed
Here was the jail the sober new jail
above the valley callow,
For here we drain the bread less clear
a Woman outside a sun herself went near
Two days long eating her hollow.

A barmaid lost her straightlaced dog
this works the thrice-snared drum;
Or down or up she beats with club,
Then booming down, then screaming up,
then singing while she thrums.

A tenant lost the mighty cat
most sober and most grave;
Where here's bad news within the folk,
she lumbers in to hear them choke,
Or cries the tears she craves.

We ne'er did lose the bald-faced horse
less humble than every wench;
And silence stiffens her as a corpse,
Her head hangs limp, she sighs perforce
Or slumps down 'neath the bench.

Or not columns of golden pans
or a dearth of golden knives!
Aganst Wednesdays here's the common few,
Or those we've tarnished more than due
in Monday morning's lives.

A woman outside sun is eating scarce,
Or a dog finished his nap;
the pot and the knife under chairs did lie,
a horse in the kitchen demurely sighed,
Or a monstrous cat mice did trap.

A woman outside sun declined a bowl,
Or climbed atop the desk;
Or here she woke and spoke of bread,
Yet nighttime fell, and so she said
That on the sea t'was dusk.

Now the barmaid ran from her deadpan dog:
those black cattle from a Sun,
Moo and ding their golden bells;
For our Mistress's sober and all is well,
And the day is almost done!

Now a dog with a drum beat out fi-fie-fo-fum,
a waltz that could send one to sleep:
She hemmed and she hawed, and she drew it out long,
All the tenants heaved Sun back to where she belonged
"'Tis not yet noon!" they'd bleat.

We shoved the lass roughly down into the dell
Or shimmied her out of the sun,
Lest her cattle plodded cross ahead,
Or a horse lay still as though 'twere dead,
Or a knife divorced a pan.

Then slower the drum came fi-fie-fo-fum;
A cat then ceased to purr,
The horses and cow fell upon their backs;
a landlord smiled and went for a nap
and slept like to wake no more.

Without a sound the drumsticks flew!
a horse tunnelled under the earth,
Or a massive cat sighed to hear such despair,
The pots broke out of their unlikely pairs
and from them the gold knives hurled.

A flat sun scraped across the dell,
while the moon retired to bed.
He quickly distrusted his shadowy nose;
For though the day, like the birds had flown
We all arose instead!

*Mops brow* Whew! That is one long poem.

[HerenIstarion]

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' roy nuncle Tim,
As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard'.

'My lad', said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Thinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll;
For he don't need his shinbone'.

Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'

'For a couple o' pins', says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Нее now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now'.

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!


***

The crowd of dwarves ran and jumped on turf
By the lake they lived and watched the surf
Just for a day, they all came to play
For it was a feast of an open fist
All wist! All gist!
They left their cave and mushroom erf
And came to the lake with the morning mist!

Down came Smaug the Strong with his wings a-wide
With an iron scale, and a foul hide
Pouring fire a-soar, rising smokes a-roar!
Swifter he flew than a gale!
A hail! A wail!
This very day nowhere to hide
Their halls and gates had proved frail!

‘My dwarves’, said drake, ‘your halls I’ll take
And burnt be down the town on lake
Your lode and mine, all soon be mine
And I’ll grow fat on dwarfmeat!
Teeth bit! Tail hit!
In the cave or by lake, I’ll skin you and bake
And hence cave be lit with my breath heat!

The dwarves forlorn, their beards they torn
But almost all were dead by morn
With an iron claw of his mighty paw
He clove his passage in!
Deep in! Crawl in!
To grab their gold, the trove untold
Of riches gather in!

Not ax, nor sword, nor pleading word
Could stop the drake across the ford
He went ashore, threw down the door
He held his feast on dwarves poor!
On poor! The boor!
The least of rings and gems a-hoard
He clawed in heaps to pour!

For many an year, noone came near
For awe of the drake and for death’s fear
He slept on his gold, and his heat went cold
Pretty gems impressed to his belly!
Soft as it was like a jelly!
But not everywhere, some spots were bare
With some slime showing off his belly!

Though the tooth be long, and the wing still strong
But the trove can’t be kept if it’s gain were wrong
Not on top, nor under a barrow, on a path a-wide or a-narrow ...
The man there lived who honed his bow
Man of law! Of no flaw!
In the south he lived by the Lake of Long
And he knew how to shoot an arrow!

Now some may be glad, or some maybe sad
But the drake is no more, there he lies, he is dead
And for all who care, the gems are there
On the river bed, on the lake floor
Says the lore!
Under the waves where winds howl bad
For those who dare to dive for more!

[HerenIstarion]

*I haven't done word-to-word translation of Lúthien Tinúviel in the verse to follow. Gazukh the Slobberer (rendered to 'of Slobber') is what ME Name generator returned for Lúthien Tinúviel.*


Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
for ever blest, since here did lie
and here with lissom limbs did run
beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun,
Lúthien Tinúviel
more fair than mortal tongue can tell.
Though all to ruin fell the world
and were dissolved and backward hurled
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good, for this-
the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea-
that Lúthien for a time should be.


***

We dread foul dump and we despise!
We spit and curse, for here will rise
And hence with heavy foot will stump
Smog-wrapped son of city dump
Ghazukh of Slobber!
The loathsome fang, the beast, the robber!
Though all to beauty came at last
Though fields may bloom, be ended fast
And things and creatures live at peace
His being will marr expected bliss
His creeping claw, his crushing foot
Will ever seek for death and loot!

[HerenIstarion]

Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
the last whose realm was fair and free
between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,
and where he dwelleth none can say;
for into darkness fell his star
in Mordor where the shadows are.


***

One snaga-lad, an orkish-slave
Fought well yet was not lain to grave
One of the thousands slain in war
Defender of his Dark Lord’s door

He had no name, but only rank
Into the marshes there he sank
Where ages since The Bearer came
Upon One Eye to play the game

His face The Bearer in water saw
And shied his candle burning low;
For one to fear the Sun and Light
Now shimmered with peril through the night.

[The Perky Ent]

*friendly bump for HerenIstarion's own genius*