Joe O'Rouke Poet Rhyme

The Anvil

Lump metal fits the smithy's hand,
and held in heat a time it glows.
From plainest load to ornament,
upheld no more - the hammer blows!

Each strike,each threat to change it yields,
a different texture,structure,shape.
It bends and folds obedient-like,
from molten heap to perfect state.

And so transformed,it suffers much.
Its twisted form condemned in fire.
A scattering of embers new -
corrupted now to suit desire,

Eternally the anvil sings
with brandished iron upon a stone,
Its back thick-stained with pounded scrap,
the process done,the seed is sown!

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Jennifer Wallace May 14, 2026 at 4:43 AM Joe, this is a powerful piece with rich craftsmanship—both in theme and execution. The forge imagery is vivid and immersive, but what struck me most is how the anvil becomes a metaphor for transformation, trial, and becoming. There’s grit, weight, and deeper reflection woven through every stanza. “Eternally the anvil sings” is an especially strong line. Excellent work—this one lingers. Joe O'Rouke May 15, 2026 at 6:55 AM Thank you Jennifer for your generous words. It is rewarding to find such understanding in your review. Most of all I am so pleased you enjoyed it.