Hobgoblins unite!

Now Playing: Howard Shore, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack. Track 2, "Concerning Hobbits".

Yesterday we had a lovely meeting of the Hobgoblin Literary Society, a fine little bunch of writers and RUFfians. Since Rachel didn't get to come, and since most of you have never been to one of our meetings, I thought I'd give some description:

I got back from some work and had twenty minutes until eight-thirty, when Hobgoblins was supposed to meet in the Lottie lobby. I lay down on the bench in the entry area and nearly fell asleep. Amy came down, and then Nicole, and then Tara and Jenny H. showed up, and later Andrew. Leslie came with Crystal. Everyone stood around talking for awhile. Crystal had just been to a TURC scholars’ dinner, and she was dressed up fancily. She complained about how all the projects on display had been science projects. “Next year, I’m going to have an English project up there,” she determined. She and I complained about how science people are completely ignorant of what English students do, and so don’t even think that we could have a project worthy of presentation (Crystal said that one of the science girls had laughed to her, “You can be part of the smarts… for tonight!”). Andrew showed up with an empty brown glass bottle of Hobgoblin Ale, which he presented to Tara, to Tara’s complete delight. We’d named Hobgoblins after the Ale, and she was thrilled to have a trophy of it.

Amy and I finally managed to get people moving. We decided to go to the 15^th Street Coffeeshop. Tara and Amy rode with me down there. On the way, Tara read us the label and let Amy and me sniff the ale bottle—it smelled quite good, actually (usually alcoholic drinks just smell strange and bitter to me, but this one was sweeter and deeper). Andrew had said that it was probably the only ale he’d ever liked. It was brewed in Wynewood, England, and the front label has a picture of a fierce looking Hobgoblin on it.

At the coffeeshop, I had to park around the corner because there were so many cars parked up: I was rather afraid that the shop would be too crowded for us. We strolled down the sidewalk, meeting up with Nicole and her crew on the way. We were eight to start out: Jenny H., Leslie, Crystal, Nicole, Tara, Andrew, Amy, and myself. It turned out that the shop was comfortably empty, with perhaps the fewest people I’ve ever seen in it. In any case, the little side room, the curtained-off cubbyhole where Tara and I sat one evening several weeks ago, was empty, so we decided to roost in there. The two barristas, the man with the red hair and the young woman with the bleached hair, laughed and joshed at each other and at us as they took our orders. Leslie ordered tea and a banana nut muffin; Nicole and Tara both had lattes with fluffy cream floating on top.

We all settled down in the cubbyhole. I perched on a cushy black box, with just enough room for myself, my journal on my knees, and a saucer (with a blueberry scone on it), and a mug of Earl Grey tea. Jenny H. sat at the end of the fat leather couch next to me. Leslie sat in the middle, and Crystal at the other end of the couch. The high leather back gleamed glossily in the low light of a Japanese lamp wedged between the sofa and the wall. Nicole and Tara perched on a low wooden cabinet, heavily carved. Tara dangled her feet over the edge of the cabinet, and I noticed that she’d drawn swirlies all over her toes with a black pen, like elegant tattoos. Andrew sat in a big leather chair beside them. When Asher came, fairly late, he sat in the chair, while Andrew perched on the arm of the chair. Amy sat in another leather-and-wood chair next to me. She perched her cup of chamomile tea on the arm of the chair, and the sweet, lemony smell lingered in the air. We pulled the heavy curtain across the opening of the room and set to work.

While Amy talked to us about C.S. Lewis, I shared my scone with Jenny H. It was crumbly and soft, with blueberries, and buttery. I’d put a bit too much sugar into the Earl Grey tea, but its bitterness still lingered pleasantly at the back of my throat—good tea and scone, one of the best combinations in the world. :o) The light from the tall black lamp lit the pottery-red walls with a gentle glow as Amy read some of Lewis’s intricate, philosophical verse. Then it was our turn. Nicole went first, with her serious loose verse; Jenny H. came next, her poetry always very physical; Leslie read a stunning sonnet, which surprised everyone. I read my Persephone poem (which is copied down below this post). Asher read next, an ekphrastic poem in response to the Dvorak cello concerto, giving concrete images to the music. Then Andrew read an angry, despairing poem, a cross between Ecclesiastes, Job, and Revelation, which he insisted was only half-done. Tara ended us with three of her sonnets, which are the bread-and-butter of our little group (and the best part of the week, literarily speaking, for me).

It was a lovely time. Time itself seemed to have stopped in our little cubbyhole behind the heavy green curtain. It seemed to let us sit, like a round brown pebble in a stream. We were all draped among the massive old furniture with our backpacks, cups, plates, cushions, bare feet, papers, and books all in a tangle. There came gentle bursts of talk from beyond the curtain. When I glanced at my watch and realized that it was ten forty-five, I was surprised. Everyone rose to go then. We trickled outside into the evening. The air was perfect, cool and warm. Pollen lingered on the air from the old elm and maple trees marching down the street in the tiny front yards of the little old sway-backed houses along the side lane. Maple seeds rattled down the cracked sidewalk. Silky red tulips swayed, purple in the darkness, in front of one of the houses. Lights shone in the long rectangular windows of the two blocks of brick flats at the end of the street—like miniature Scottish flats; they always remind me of Scotland. Through one of the windows, I could see a red Chinese paper lamp glowing. The moon and stars through the trees were pollen yellow, and the sky seemed purple.

Amy and I drove back to campus together. We both praised the delightful evening we’d just spent. I explained to her the form of the ballad (our next assignment, after ekphrastic poetry). I was pretty tired when I got back to the room, but RCS wasn’t there. I discovered, to my chagrin, that Chris Harrison, the study abroad person at IFSA, had called me around noon, and our answering machine hadn’t showed it until now. I was somewhat concerned by her message, but decided just to go to bed since it was much too late to call. I read a little bit of Psalm 18 to quiet myself before I went to sleep.

And here's that poem. Yes, it's familiar, similar to "Persephone Revisited", which I posted on here awhile ago. I thought that this poem captured the darkness of the piece of music better. (When I read, Asher, who noticed "Persephone Revisited", said, "You wrote 'Revisited' before you wrote 'Persephone'? Awesome! Are you bending space and time?" Now that made me laugh....)

Persephone
From Adagio con moto, Sonata in E minor for flute, cello, and harpsichord, by J.S. Bach

I wander down the road: on either side,
The living towers of the trees turn black,
Flat figures on a brittle jar, the red
Of summer’s sunset fired to fragile clay.
The sun that lit the fields with green has turned
To wind, blown grass away in silver smoke.
The rain pelts petals on the ground, bruised brown.
These were my works: the trees like halls of gold,
The fields like silver flames, the colors’ bursts
That burst and break, like waves run on the shore
To drown themselves in sand. The red hills blow
Away, red leaves like potsherds on the wind,
My labors shattered with the shame of Fall.
Where can I look for rest? I searched for home,
Searched through the summer, though I knew that soon
Sun’s labors lost would ruin—I knew. Alone
Now, walking down this road into the dark,
I must move on, from season into season,
No place to rest or watch—even the snow,
The bite of winter, and the breath of cold,
The dragon-drink of ice will melt, and then
I must work on, toil on, to build another place.
Oh, oh, this world is empty, full of toil.
This broken ground is weary of its work—
Weary of thrusting up the grass again, weary
Of sowing yet another crop of snow.
Yet as the year revolves, so on I go,
Drag my brown body round the days, from door
To door, from Middle-Earth to Hell, and round
Again. When will there be a stop, when can
I cease revolving, cease this endless making,
This fruitlessness that frets along my way?
I raise my eyes unto the distant hills—
There I must spend these winter months, and mourn,
And when the summer comes, the trees will leaf,
But all will be an actor’s mask that smiles,
Green leaves to hide the grimace of the earth.
I raise my eyes again: along the west,
The sun is setting, and like wings the clouds
Wait, hovering, above the distant hills,
Their breasts lit by the last long breath of day,
The green light lingering on the formless hills.