Welcome to The Great Hall of Poets, our regular monthly feature showcasing the talent of Middle-earth fans. Each month we will feature a small selection of the poems submitted, but we hope you will read all of the poems that we have received here in our Great Hall of Poets.
So come and join us by the hearth and enjoy!
If you have a Tolkien/Middle-earth inspired poem you’d like to share, then send it to poetry@theonering.net One poem per person may be submitted each month. Please make sure to proofread your work before sending it in. TheOneRing.net is not responsible for poems posting with spelling or grammatical errors.
Helm the Hammerhand
by D. McGlinchey
Over Suthburg’s walls the snow fell thick, covering a land of despair.
Whilst throughout the barren and cheerless halls,
Cold death had filled the air.
For the pride of his people had Helm smote King Freca, High Lord of the Dunlending race.
In challenging his right to the Rohirrim lands and insulting his fair daughters grace.
Soon Edoras had fallen to Freca’s son Wulf, with Dunlending’s and Corsair’s conspiring.
At the Great Golden Hall, Prince Haleth had died, in honour with courage inspiring.
Whilst down by the Isen his fathers fate turned.
Defeated, retreated to Suthburg’s high walls,
Whilst the rest of the Riddermark burned.
Desperate, surrounded with no help to call, Helm defended his folks last great keep.
With fire in his eyes and steel in his fists,
His enemies lives he would reap!
For such was the fear in the enemies camp
Of the Suthburg’s ‘Dark Wraith of the Snow’.
The ‘Hammerhand’ some said of the Rohirrim King
Who killed all he faced with one blow!
The terrible long winter would not let them go, famine and disease soon descending.
Yet still Helm strode out like a fearsome Snow Troll,
With fury and vengeance unending!
Bitter the wind and the ice and the gales,
And the fuel of his rage spurred him on.
But one man cannot bitter East winds long withstand.
Soon the fire in his heart it was gone.
Frozen in death but still ready to fight, the legend of Helm it has grown.
And from out of the Hornburg his spirit will rise,
Whenever the Great War Horn is blown.
To the Mound of the Kings was Helms body returned,
With reverence to sleep the long sleep.
Forever remembered and beloved of his folk.
Whom he’d helped to survive at ‘Helms’ Deep.
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