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Rated: E · Poetry · Writing · #2225481
A poem about writers.
Writers

Wordsmiths, metalworkers, all the same,
heating the forge, pumping the bellows,
bending, beating, stretching the form
of their glowing, tempered and chosen kind.
Strongarm the blacksmith, shining with sweat,
red-faced and blowing in the furnace heat,
shouts in your ear through the beat of his hammer,
“Look at this, I tell ya, it’s something to see.”
Grabs the scruff of your neck, holds your face
to anvil, too close to focus, you see only blur
of incandescence on darkened shadows,
shakes you and exclaims excitement aloud,
showers of sparks and adverbs, rivers
of molten fire and streams of words alight,
he is passion embodied, emotion abrim.

The jeweller ensconced in silent intent,
concentration lasered on fine detail in the gold
and silver of his craft, bends his eyeglass
close to another delicate fancy of light reflected
from those polished, elegant, exquisite forms,
the products of his obsession. “Consider,”
he breathes in gusts between his single effort,
“Consider how the least of my tempered strokes
affects the composition of the whole,
how the comma and colon serve their precise tasks,
the words considered, inspected, rejected,
decided at last to join in concert these others,
meaning laced with meaning, balance achieved.”
Pooled in light, he holds aloft the jewel,
marvel of intricate form and design, a piece
to be admired for its quality and beauty.

So they and those between such extremes
of approach, do ply their trade in pursuit
of creation, smithies of a sort, united in skill,
methods as diverse as right and wrong,
techniques of strength and infinite care,
so are the writers hailed as such,
minds labouring at the forge of creation,
bending the phrase to novel intent,
mapping the blueprint of humanity’s will,
passing the fire to others.



Line Count: 41
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