Welcome to the part of the Bramblebury Gazette where artists are given
the opportunity to present themselves and their works of art. We cater
for printable art only, so please don't send in any wooden or stone-hewn
sculptures! Sketches of these sculptures can be printed, of course. We
hereby present some poetry to you, song lyrics, paintings and short
stories. The teachings of Master Simbo Rumblebelly about how to make your own poetry can be found in the Art of Poetry - the classes If you want to contribute to the Art's Corner, please send your submission via Quick Post.  |
Art's Corner
Poem - A hole in one
By Ponso Pondhopper  We are but plain and simple folk, And ‘Hobbits’ be our name; We have a most congenial look, And shun heroics and fame. But when our home is under threat, And enemies approach; Force with force will ay be met, Before our lands you touch. We are a calm and paisible folk, Fond of ales and food; Our lives are happy: oft we joke; We’re almost never rude. Yet push a spear into our face, And you will raise our ire. We will not shrink from fight or chase; And so meet fire with fire. We are not proud or boastful, we, For heroics and such stuff’; Of drink and vittles, you can see, We always have enough. But threaten us with force and war, And we shall take our stand; We’ll rally to the cause; no more Will invaders take our lands. And so it was in times gone by; When by invasion met, We looked the Goblins in the eye, Uncowered by the threat. Long we fought upon these fields, With pitchfork, bow and arrow; The Goblins armed with spears and shields Would scare you to the marrow. But we stood firm and never flinched, Sure of our position; As the orcish forces forward inched, We stood in opposition. Oh! Bandobras, Oh Bandobras, To you our freedom’s owed; For when the day was almost lost, Your strength and courage showed. Fearing naught, you waded in, And faced Golfinbul here; You shouted o’er the battle’s din, ‘Hobbits, to my rear!’ The Hobbit ranks fell back behind, And their positions took. When Bandobras stomped on the ground, The whole of the Greenfields shook. The goblins sneered, Golfimbul mocked, As Bandobras stood tall; The orcish troops toward you flocked, But you ignored them all. Then, ‘Charge!’ you yelled and all ran forth Toward the Goblin-horde; At the head of the Goblins, to the north, Golfimbul raised his sword. But Bandobras, you showed your might; Your club swung over your head, Felling orc-foes, left and right, Leaving them dying or dead. The cowardly orc-chief tried to run; But he would not keep his head. A mighty swipe of your club: It was done! Golfimbul lay there dead! The Goblins turned tail and tried to escape, But the Hobbit bows stopped their flight; And Golfimbul’s head, sundered from nape, Flew upwards and out of sight. A hundred yards from where its owner lay dead, Was a burrow under a hill; And t’was there in the hole they found his head, The first ‘hole in one’, if you will! This poem was made for, and first read by it's author on, Bullroarer Took Day 2018 |
Poem - The Took Who Married a Fairy
By Pycella Woodberry  And this is a story that might not be true It’s about a Took who, once in his life, Loved a fairy and took her as his dear wife. When he was little, his ma told about fairies Who baked the most wonderful pastries And whenever the lad had his birthday He found a tasty pie at their doorway “That’s a gift from a fairy”, his ma explained Even though they were pies she had baked The lad grew older, believing his ma’s lies And became a true lover of fairy-made pies “When I come of age, I will marry a fairy” “Together, we will run a magical bakery” One day, he had a walking stick in his hands And started to search for the fairy lass lands Up on a hill, a hobbit lady was napping Having a picnic, with a pie in a wrapping But when she slept, a bear came over It was hungry and had a bad honey hangover It roared and the hobbit lady woke up She screamed and climbed up to the tree top The bear ate the pie, and left for bear business But up in the tree, there was a lady in distress
A pie inspired by this poem
Then the lad came by, still after his fairiesAnd he heard the cries from behind the leaves “Is it you, pie fairy, up in the tree?” said he. “I’m what you will, now help me get free!” said she. The lad climbed up and helped the lass down safely And when they were there, he bent his knee. And the rest is rumours and hobbit history. Until his dying day, he thought the lass was a fairy And no wonder, for her pies were quite lovely Believe what you will, it might not be true But love is a real thing, even for a Took. This poem was first presented at the Tuckburough Historical Field Trip on February 18, 2018. Some info about the artist: Miss Pycella is not only a gifted storyteller and poet, but she is also a baker of pies and runs a shop in Songburrow that is well worth a visit! Miss Pycella often recites poems or stories of her own hand at the Green Dragon on Fridays, where she also sometimes acts as the host of the evening. |
Poem - King and Queen
By Simbolo Rumblebelly What would the night be without the stars? That we may admire from afar And what would the day be without the sun? That it may shine on everyone And could you have a bird without a song? That it sings sweetly all day long And what would a river be without a fish? Or a wishing well without a wish? So what would a lad be without a lass? To keep him on the rightful path And what would a lass be without a lad? He may be silly, but makes her glad Be it a lad and a lass, or Queen and King There's happiness in pairs of things... For many things are bound together And two as one can stay forever Some info about the author: Master Simbolo is the brother of another fine poet: Simbo. Talent runs in the family there! He made this poem for the occasion of the coronation of Queen Dassa and King Potty on May 6 2017 and first performed it there. |
Poem - the Silly Dragon
By Pycella Woodberry About the Author: The Silly Dragon Once there was a land far from here  It smiled and into the pond it went It drank all the water it could take And then it came up with haste It rose up and flew quite high And poured water down from the sky It spread seeds on the ground so bare And they grew into fields so fair The dragon planted blooms and greens Turnips, corn and apple trees There was no place left bare nor plain The world became alive again. Where is that silly dragon now? Into the pond he did go There he blows some water bubbles And enjoys eating tasty mussels To him, it never mattered really That he was born so silly. Miss Pycella is a talented poet, storyteller and playwright. She often recites her work on Green Dragon Fridays. With this poem, she entered the poetry competition of the Harnkegger Games 2016 and won the silvery prize. |
Poem - A hill never climbed
By Ponso Pondhopper The other day I took a stroll, With no particular aim in mind. To pass some time, my only goal; Perhaps to see what I could find. Towards the Smials I set my feet; Followed the crag, beneath the trees. The sun shone brightly, what a treat! And on my face a cooling breeze. At copses' end, I took a right, And climbed the path with boulders strewn; Till Tuckborough hove into sight. I stopped to rest; 'twas nearly noon. My seat a stone, both wide and flat; On a branch above, a blackbird trilled, As in a reverie I sat; Its endless song my spirits filled. I thought of all the times I'd been Sat on this stone, beneath this tree. Of all the Shire sights I had seen, And wondered if there was more to see. And standing up, I spied a hill; A lonely tree upon its crown. I had the afternoon to kill, So from my rock I scrambled down. I said goodbye to the warbling bird; Strode off once more across the sward. The blackbird's song still plainly heard; It's daring notes that thrilled and soared. To my left, Great Willow, feet in mire; To my right, a clump of silver birch. I climbed the rise, onward and higher, Determined in my dogged search. And topping the ridge I saw the mound; Encircled by a ring of stone. Around its foot, a cart track wound, And on its top, a tree, alone. I scrambled down and crossed the lane; And now the hill looked tall and bare. My attempts to climb it were in vain; No easy footholds anywhere! But where's there's a will', my Dad would say, 'There's also a way, it can't be denied'; Determined was I to find the way, And thought to try the other side. I circled the base along the cliff; The ground rose steeply by its side. My legs grew tired, my back was stiff, As I searched for the path as yet untried. And then at last I found the way; A grassy slope that smoothed the rise. I scrambled up there straight away, And what a view to meet my eyes! Beneath my feet, the Farthing Stone, Bywater beyond and Hobbiton Bridge; The Party Tree, bedecked, alone, And further on, The Hill's green ridge. Here was a sight I'd never seen, Bindbole wood in midday haze; The distant Box Hills, blue and green. More glorious view ne'er met my gaze! So here I sat an hour, enthralled, Watching the Water far below; As through its vale it wound and sprawled. I really didn't want to go. But time, it's said, will never wait For Hobbit, man or dwarf and elf; The sun was dipping; it was late, I woke from my daydream, shook myself. I took a final look around, And with a heavy heart, descended. I followed the path that turned and wound; Another exploration ended. Odd that until this day I'd never Climbed this hill, nor seen this sight; Worth every ounce of my endeavour. Inspiring view, a rare delight. I headed home with sprightly gait; The setting sun, low, in my eyes. I didn't mind that it was late, Not after winning such a prize! |
Poem - The Secret of the Battle of the Greenfields
 When Golfimbul woke this very day
He was aching for a Hobbit fray
He dragged his hideous frame off
A soiled sack that was not very soft
The Gobby cook was slopping out
A soup of weeds and piggy snout
Golfy grabbed a filthy bowl
With sharp edges, time had taken its toll
After a lousy night of broken sleep
Golfy was hoping for roasted sheep
Instead he got this watery grub
It tasted foul and contained many slugs
He felt a lurch along his middle
The slugs went down, how they wiggled
“Pass the bread!” he shouted aloud
Over his head hung a dark cloud
His Gobby mates tossed him a hunk
Full of worms and gravelly chunks
Golfimbul cracked another tooth
An awful breakfast, that’s the truth!
Now over in the Hobbit camp
Bullroarer Took had slept like a champ
The night before he’d eaten well
Of apple pie with a sauce of caramel
And before that he’d had roasted chicken
With taters in a broth perfectly thickened
He washed it down with brew from clover
Not so much as to get a hangover
He’d gone to bed with great contentment
And dreamed of a victorious presentment
He was woken feeling quite well rested
Certain that he would not be bested
The smell of bacon warmed his heart
He polished it off with a savoury tart
The charming cook proffered some biscuits
Alongside the tenderest tasty brisket
But best of all he drank his tea
With a touch of honey from the bees
He rose from the table quite refreshed
Ready for battle without undue stress
As the foes approached across the Green
The Goblins looked mean though smelled unclean
But the Hobbits could hear their stomachs rumble
The Gobby’s were hungry and their insides all tumbled
The Hobbit army was quite well fed
With a full stomach, they had nothing to dread
But they paused to have a little snack
Such foresight! They’d packed honey cakes in their packs
The Gobby’s had nothing on which to gnaw
Except for an Aleford poisoned black crow claw
Golfimbul washed that down with sour turnip bile
While our Took quenched his thirst with beer for a while
All the Goblin Chief managed was a baleful glance
Our Took was quick to take aim and grab his chance
Took lobbed a spoiled turnip straight in his mouth
Then knocked off Golfy’s head with a resounding clout
The battle that day was won on good food
The starving Goblins were thoroughly stewed
The moral is that those with the best pies
Will always oust the bad Goblin guys
This was one of three poems by three different poets, made specially for Bullroarer Took Day 2016. |
Poem - the Thing that even Bullroarer fears
 the Thing that even Bullroarer fears A taller lad yer never saw The stoutest Took in farthings four A full-size steed he rode with pride His club was longer than an oar On Greenfields hobbits rallied round The hero of the goblin war He killed their king in one fell swoop And took his place in hobbit lore Oh Bullroarer, we bow to you This bright and festive spring-time day Whenever danger roams our land Your bravery will show the way But courage only goes so far For even heroes have their flaws A worry never overcome Their daring crushed by terror's jaws And even one so bold as him One thing he'd always face with fear A source of near eternal dread His tight and tiny underwear! At four foot five, an awkward height No cloth did ever fit him well With tiny steps he moved ahead Constricted by them britches fell So think of him this day in spring And ponder on his famous roar The reason for his loudest screams? Those piddly pants he always wore... This was one of three poems by three different poets, made specially for Bullroarer Took Day 2016. |
Poem - A Game of Golf
 A Game of Golf Bandobras Took was the son of the Thain The tallest then alive It was said, of course he could ride a horse His height being four foot five! Now, Isumbras’ son, when all’s said and done, Must be the most famous of all; He wielded a club, the goblins to drub, Standing both stocky and tall There’s many a book on the Family Took, The stories, not hard to recall; But one stands alone: of the Took who was known As ‘Bullroarer’, the hero of all. Now, one day long ago, as hist’ry books show, The Shire came under attack. From Mount Gram they came, the Greenfields to claim; Goblins, all dressed in black! Their leader, Golfimbul, was agile and nimble And rather adept with an axe. He’d amassed many hordes of goblins with swords; On the Shire he launched his attacks. The Hobbits were brave and tried hard to save Their homelands from this assault. But the goblins fought hard, pushed on yard by yard; Their progress, no-one could halt. The Greenfields, they crossed, and all seemed to be lost, When a shout went up from the rear. ‘It’s Bullroarer at last, and he’s riding up fast!’ And the Hobbits replied with a cheer! They parted their ranks, attacking the flanks Of the goblins who’d stopped in their tracks. The very ground shook, as Bandobras Took Bore down on the one with the axe! Golfimbul, t’is said, was fond of his head And had no intention of losing it; He turned tail and ran, deserting his clan. A coward: let’s not be excusing it! Through the ranks the Took rode, and the goblins he mowed With every swipe of his stick. Well Golfimbul broke free, trying to flee But Bullroarer was after him, quick! With the goblin in sight, the Took showed his might And raised the great club in the air He swung at his head and the goblin fell dead And Bullroarer reined in his mare. But the club had such heft that the goblin’s head left His shoulders, and sailed through the air And all stood and stared as the head, unimpaired Disappeared into goodness-knows where! Well that was enough: though the goblins were tough They ran from Bandobras Took! And the Hobbits all cheered, at the goblins they jeered; Then off for the head went to look. Strange to relate, Golfimbul’s pate Had travelled a full hundred paces. It had rolled down a furrow and into a burrow; Well, that put a smile on their faces! When Bullroarer saw, he gave a guffaw: ‘I think I’ve invented game,’ ‘With a club strike a ball, in the hole, see it fall…’ ‘And ‘Golf’ would be a grand name!’ So my dear friends, that’s how the tale ends, And Took went back to Long Cleeve The attack was prevented, and Golf was invented, At least… So I’ve been led to believe! |
Poem - Ode to the Grand Order
By Simbo Rumblebelly A poem written in honour of the Grand Order's Eigth Anniversary. In a time when there are many bad things going on, it's emphasis is firmly of Friendship Ode to the Grand Order We welcome you to Songburrow We've glad that you are here To join us in our gathering Remembering eight years For at such times, it does us good To meet up with our friends Let hope this evening's full of hugs And hope should never end And so, it was eight years ago A group of friends met up At the Golden Perch in Stock Where ale is fondly supped And tales were told, adventures shared With friendships gladly made And so it was the Order formed With Mathoms as their trade The made their home in Songburrow And built a stately hall There outside laid a welcome mat And Mathoms lined the wall The table ever full with food For all the hungry guests The hall was like a sanctuary Where weary folk could rest And folk did come and folk did go Throughout the days that passed So many memories were made Of happiness that lasts But best of all, the friendships formed Should fill us all with cheer So hug your friends as tight you can There's hope for all our years |
The poem that won first prize at the Harnkegger Games 2015
By Volko Fastbite The day was bright, the grass was
green, No cloud had yet the blue sky seen, And in the calm of afternoon A hobbit walked, dark-haired and thin. His thoughts were far, across the hill, Where pines stand round the Overhill - They said there was a
little hole, Where lived a girl whose
pies could heal. They said that wounded, sick and ill Came there with hope to Overhill And when they tasted spoken pies Their pain would go. A magic meal! The hobbit heard of those who took One bite and healed. He wished to look For her who crafted magic pies, Because he was himself a cook. From Michel Delving to Waymeet Then Hobbiton, he walked by feet For three long days with stops to sleep And only thirteen times to eat! At last he came, he found the way Just by the end of the fifth day, He saw her – beautiful and light, He stared and had no words to say. She fed him well, he fell in love, Her pies were crispy from above Inside there was a juicy meat Of rabbit or, perhaps, a dove. From then they lived a happy life, He asked her to become his wife, They always cooked her magic pies And even learned to play the fife. The end. Master Volko Fastbite won first prize in the Harnkegger games' Poetry and Story Contest 2015 with the above poem. Master Volko adds, that the poem is almost autobiographical. |
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