I Hate You, Goldberry

I Hate You, Goldberry (or Luthien’s Teen-aged Angsty Poetry Phase)


What’s this about golden-haired nymphs of the deep?
Why cannot all Children just celebrate me?
It’s not as if I were not perfectly formed
With flowers and tresses and such rot adorned.
I’m plenty for songs, so back off, you ‘ho
Whilst through the dark forest a’singing I go.
Your mother is water? Well mine is a god.
Take that, River-daughter; go swallow a cod.
(I heard that about you, the swallowing part,
When I chucked you right out of poor Daeron’s heart.)

So you grant sweetest dreams to guests and the like?
Try sorcelling Sauron, try stealing starlight!
You soak your feet nightly in flower-filled bowls,
But I sang until Eru restored Beren’s soul.
My song is of magic, and so are my tresses,
Which strikes me as better by far than your dresses.
Green? I mean, really, who wears it nowadays?
And the odes to your pretty gold hair? A phase!
I’ve heard you compared to willows and reeds,
But as far as I know, those are just weeds.
I’m smart! I’m sexy, and look, I can dance!
Plus, I’d never canoodle a doof in orange pants.

Now some may mistake me and so think me bitchy
(they call your feet swift; I say you are are twitchy),
But listen, my uncle is Manwe, so there.
Try pulling a Lord of the West from your hair!

And finally ponder on this, you nymphette:
My love's a mite taller and suaver, I bet.
He’s burlier, too, and bi-monthly takes showers,
Which one-ups your leprawn, despite all those flowers.
So go back to the shoreline and sit in the rushes
And leave off enchanting my noble elf crushes.

I’m sick of the ballads all calling you queen,
I’m sick of comparisons: that stuff is mean!
I’m sick of hearing your name on a sigh.
I hate you, Goldberry. Too bad you can’t die.

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AN: Thank you so much, elea, for the excellent beta!

And lest the canonistas squirm...

- By “Children,” of course I mean “Children of lluvatar.”
- No, it’s never stated explicitly that Tom Bombadil’s trousers were orange. I took a liberty.
- And no, Silmarils aren’t technically starlight, but close enough.
Also, this poem is in rhyming couplets, yo: just like the Lay of Leithian!

On the Breaking Type challenge:

I failed it. My aim was to outline a story and then write from that outline, something I've never before done with fiction. So I diligently worked up a long, angsty outline about whether Goldberry consented to being "taken" by Tom, and dealing with the obvious threat behind those ding-a-don-dillos... and then I looked at the outline and It Was Good. Moreover, as far as my muse was concerned, it was done. I couldn't rouse a speck of interest in actually writing the thing. So I whined about my miserable state to the kind folks on Garden of Ithilien, and Alquawende said something along the lines of, "I Hate You, Goldberry ...huh, that sounds like the title of a piece." Huh indeed, I thouhgt. And it all went downhill from there. I ended up writing a sarky bit o' bad humour, which is not in any way different or revolutionary for me. The subject matter (Goldberry) was slightly unusual, but not really: there's nobody I absolutely refuse to write, after all. Bah. Maybe I can write something else from an outline. Methinks I'll have to "do" this challenge several times before it sticks.