On 29 January 2024, a guest-post to the Tales after Tolkien Society blog featured Lancelot Schaubert’s “Dear Tolkien Estate.” The poem is included in Dennis Wilson Wise’s series on new alliterative poets, and Wise comments at some length on the structure of the poem, itself. In truth, I don’t know that I have anything to add to his discussion of it, unless maybe to find something of Milton in it–the final line, “Pendragon’s poem I dare to complete” is, to my ear, a lesser echo of the claim that Paradise Lost will “soar / Above th’ Aonian mount…/[…]/And justify the ways of God to men” (1.13-26). I am certain, however, that others will be able to say more than is given to me quite at the moment.

I agree with Wise that the poem is good, both in itself and as an example of the kind of thing done by the poets of the alliterative revival / survival (there is some suggestion that the alliterative form preferred by early English poetry persisted in one way or another throughout the period in which it has traditionally been held to have lapsed; the dearth of records does not exclude the possibility, and it is not likely that a long-standing mode of transmission was given up altogether), I note that it does clearly mark out its expected primary and secondary audiences. The title and the final stanza attend to the former, particularly; the subject matter, invoking Arthuriana and Tolkien’s Legendarium, suggest that the kind of nerd I am is the anticipated secondary readership.

Being the kind of nerd I am, I read the poem and am motivated to my own response; Schaubert ain’t the only one who gets to do this kind of thing:

Through ages has Arthur attracted attention,
Gathered since Gildas glory, acclaim
Known well to Nennius and noted, too, in
Galfridian Gloucester-praise that might be a game.
The man bound, Malory, mated together
The tales that were told across times and lands,
Put together in prison the parchments’ burdens,
Set them where Spenser could sing to his queen,
Hortatory halted but heard down the years.
The Professor, peerless in popular eyes,
Put his pen to the praise of the one who pulled
The sword from the stone in the yard of St. Paul’s,
One of nine worthies. That work went unfinished,
As was seen to sorrow; it stands not alone
As titles can tell us. The truth is
No story or song is ever full-settled;
How many have told of the husband of Guinevere,
How many speak yet of the son of Uther,
Not all in accord about Agravain’s uncle?
The works of giants yet left in the world
Show there was more than is now to be seen;
Who would be like them must well show the work
The passage of years performs. Praise is not withheld
From the soup of which the stock’s source is unseen.
But if it will be that the book is completed,
The talent assembled and talk well taken,
Let one who loves it do the labor.

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Not fronting a hideaway
I still find myself presented with
Confronted by
Not a cowboy puppet
But other things
Snippets of songs and shows I remember
Seeing or hearing about
Because I did not listen or watch them
When I was young
So much as I was young
Being taken up by other things
Older yet than I am
And by some years

How can it be
That I long for things I never knew
Seeking in them for something new
Despite their age?

But there is this
At least
My longings are for things that were
Not for things that have never been
And I think little harm would follow
Did I get my wish

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The steam drills have long since won and
Been succeeded by diesel explosions and
Other fires, burning away at the fabric of the world,
Leaving less work to do for fewer and fewer hammers,
Driving the hands that would hold them and swing them
To other tasks and seemingly gentler where
The tick of a pen or pencil makes a single point and
The lives of others are saved or ruined while
Nobody notices and damned few care

The diesel is not the only successor to the steam,
The hammer not the only tool being wielded less and less,
But there are more hands, and they demand more tasks
Because Adam’s curse is still held as blessing and
Calvin still commands much in the world despite
Matthew’s words to which he and many claim fealty,
Or James’s, or tales of apostolic acts
Passed down from hand to hand as
The next best thing to Gospel truth

The new successors have their heralds
Trumpeting them to the four winds and
Seeking to soar above the lot of them,
And no few glory in the ringing of those horns for now,
The booming of the covered copper bowls that
Covers the coming steps of new giants who
Need grist for the mills to make their flour;
They do not mark the tune as the dirge that it is,
Playing out for them soon enough as it
Already sings out for others

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Staring out through the broad plate glass at
The clear blue sky cleared by
Notus groaning at an unexpected time and
Wondering when what is causing his ecstasy will
Make its way my way

For now
Nothing is where I can see it
But I can feel it in my bones
Becoming an old man as I am
And the ache is a distraction

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Though the skies are hanging grey
And the fall has fled away
There’s been no snow for children’s play
It’s clear that Jack has been delayed

That Jack has not visited yet
Is not something many regret
But I would never care to bet
That he this place would all forget

As old men drinking coffee know
Jack has appeared and had in tow
A baggage train that caused great woe
And left a mess ere he did go

But forecasts say he will pass by
More oft than not; they give the lie
To wisdom held ‘hind wrinkléd eye
Though kids still hope Jack will come nigh

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It was something we’d known was coming for a while
Kind of hard to miss, really
And it’s likely for the best
He’d not been having a good time of it for some time
Though he still got up
Tail wagging
Last time we were over there
And there’s something to that

He was a good boy
For a good, long while
And he’s worth the tears

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I didn’t win the lottery with
The ticket that I bought from
Proceeds of a scratch-off that
Filled my stocking recently

That matters little enough
I’m used to not having the money
And in the games that really matter
I’ve come out pretty far ahead

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Of the many things the time around the solstice brings
There are many that sit ill with me and with many others
And not only the frantic formic scurrying to
Gather sweetness for a few days’ time that
All too often descends to stinging ass-showing and
Sharp mandibular work that tears and leaves scars

The orgy erupts again and again
Coating all the world in its delight
And provokes from no few their own
Sticky fluids clinging and dripping
Needing more than a few towels to wipe up
And ensuring spreading through the bush as
Seed scatters to the winds

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Already the spring is coiling
Tension building to find release
And propel forward some flower to bloom
Opening again in renewing sunlight
To the delight of those who planted it and
Who yet tend its soil

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