Thursday, October 14, 2004
To Rebecca
Don't be sad on Thor's account.
Though the humble smith will dream
at times of orfèverie, he knows
his best is forged with hammer and tongs.
Constant heat and pounding remove
impurities from iron ingots and leave
a gleam that only fools call golden--
that time and weather burn to rust.
But a thing of joy is for ever beautiful--
in the smithy, the mortal god strives
content to fashion ferrous charms
that will endure a human touch.
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6 comments:
glad it did something for you. Thanks for dropping by. RT
A comment on the modesty thread under Buscando, I think :)
Well, ferrous charm will do me!
Aisha
Hey Aish. Thanks for the read. Glad you could see the beauty of this rusty old thing ;-)))
RangerT, sorry it has taken me so long to respond to this lovely poem. I am a slow reader, even more so when my name is invoked, and I wanted to give the poem my complete (aka post-Wolfie) attention. The opening line, Don't be sad on Thor's account, is gorgeous. It sets the poem up perfectly. I'm not sure of orfèverie, fever? Fever would be perfect here, and this is how I read it. The heat it takes in that moment, that moment of spark, and the heat it takes to forge that moment into something strong. I love the idea of the best being forged with hammer and tongs. This rings true to me, that creating is hard work, not some gossamer fairy pee that floats down from the heavens. Constant heat and pounding, yes, this is what it takes, removing impurities, crafting, releasing. And the gleam that is left will rust, and how even that rust finds its own beauty, in the eyes of the mortal god, content to fashion ferrous charms that will (we hope) endure. This is a great metapoem, lovely, lovely. So glad you posted it. I've read it many times.
Rebecca
Hi Rebecca.
Not sure if you'll read this, but I'm glad you liked the poem and very much appreciate your taking the time to respond. Your comment on my tag took me aback, and the poem just jumped out in a way that poetry rarely comes for me (which is not to say that I didn't work on it after the initial draft ;-) Usually, a poem takes me weeks to write. This took an hour--very, very fast for me.
Anyway, "orfèverie" is French for the métier of goldsmith, and, like the poem, it just popped up--the perfect word.
Thanks again.
Peter
What a gorgeous word. Nothing I like better than a new word to spark the imagination. Orfèverie. Yum.
R
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