The Blacksmith

Iron, that malleable thing
can be forged in fashion first seen in smithy's mind.
He fires and draws
punches and bends
smites and cuts and fires again
each stay in the coals increases the iron's tenderness
redsorangesyellowswhites glow like comets, traverse the darkness
Sparks sap resistance.
Hammer clangs, first to iron, then to steel it's song of change,

Is it hammer or anvil that claims victory?
Or the iron that yields -- with or without its will?
Anvil, that ancient force uses me to play its song and
there is no melody without the suffering of strikes.
Good smiths let the iron do its bending with
just ... gentle ...guidance.

Force and blow do something to the soul and
there are strikes that can never be corrected. Once made
they live forever in the iron...
hidden... silent... waiting...
for the next repair when
hope foments change and
all is lost and left lying on the anvil
in disgrace.

I began writing poetry in high school. Worked as a librarian and taught poetry to students in elementary school. Reside in NJ.

Last updated November 18, 2013