Long Smithy Poems
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He was the village blacksmith
To us children he was known
As our adopted Uncle Wilf
They’d no children of their own.
Six days a week he worked,
His hours long and physically hard.
Our cottage back door opened
Straight onto the smithy yard.
The yard was full of machinery
Each one a potential toy,
Schooner, stagecoach, tank
Imagined by a lonely little boy.
A binder, a reaper, a hay rake
A seed drill, a harrow, a plough
I never saw them arrive and go
They just came and went somehow.
Sometimes there were farmers
Serious, big weathered men.
Talking quietly in the Forge
Maybe laughing now and then.
I stood there among them,
Old Tom’s youngest lad,
They all knew and respected
My hard working labourer dad.
Uncle Wilf talked as he worked,
Never had much time to stop,
Always work to be done
In a busy blacksmith’s shop.
Sometime he’d let me help him,
Giving me a little job to do,
Like handing him the nails to be
Driven into a Shire’s new shoe.
Just a country childhood
Just after the Second War
And binders, harrows and reapers
Weren’t so much needed anymore.
The big Combined Harvester
Very quickly came along
And, not long after, the Shires
And village smithies were all gone.
Now, seventy years later,
Eyes closed, I recall with joy
My very special childhood as
A lonely Yorkshire village boy.
Life seemed to be a lot slower
And people didn’t have a lot
But we’d really appreciated
The little bits we’d all got.
The wordsmith toils over hot metal fonts in wellsprings
Struggling like a blacksmith to hone and shape
thoughts and images into typeface words and poems.
To conjure up meanings from thoughts twisted, prodded,
cajoled and prised to render mindful hot gems of expression.
Squeezing letters from tubes onto a pallet,
the smithy shovels the alphabet mix into blobs of words and
babbles with peaks, on bench.
Words of many colors gleaned and arrayed for careful collation.
Shuffling through the verbal menagerie,
words are carefully selected
for their sound, voice, look and meaning.
Memorable and meaningful words,
that prompt feelings way beyond what the words just say,
Words that bind the fabric of emotional phrases in layer on layer,
and in the honey, binding the words together,
Words provoking deep blue feeling
when words read between the lines,
Words that reach out well beyond the intended,
to the unintended feelings and emotions in readers.
Word plays, games and devices crafted
to perfection by wordsmith magicians.
For the wordsmith loves words
with sheer, utter and blatant devotion.
The words themselves,
not just their power, magic and what they mean.
Like charms and spells,
such bewitched words only work
if the readers and hearers believe in them.
Such evocative words inspire
feelings and emotions in readers
primed to be receptive to their charms.
Musical evocative words,
that resonate and echo deep within.
Poets are wordsmiths, artists, musicians,
performers, sages and soothsayers,
driven by the love of words, to create masterpieces
in artful word craft:
It is the color of saying.
It was Old Man Smith’s farm this story begins, begins, gets told and ends,
And will never be anything more than a local story that’s told between friends.
You see, the cold night sky kept filling with lightning lighting up the ground,
And after each thunder, there was silence, there was nothing, not even a sound.
The birds, the dogs, the cattle and sheep hid, hushed away in the shed,
All night they slept together, warm in their communal, dry, straw bale bed.
And in the pine house, with the corrugated iron roof amplifying the rain
Sat Old Smithy, in the dark, listening to the lightning, hearing the thundering train.
With his pipe and his friendly can of grog, he sat with his thoughts in his soul
When he heard the thunder call for him, calling for him to go for a stroll.
Now his farm wasn’t flat and easy to walk, it was hilly, crisscrossed with streams.
And if anyone ventured too far in, there would be no one to hear the screams.
What happened is a mystery, there’s no explaining what was sitting by the ridge.
Only his pipe, and a can of beer, by the destroyed, flood broken rubble bridge,
Now, if you listen carefully you can hear the wind sing his voice down the creek by dark,
And animals hear when the sheep walk their path and all the local dogs all bark.
AFRICA IS NOT YOUR LAB
Monumental carcasses impended: Africa is not a lab,
A pinch of your pin is worse than knife stab -
Reducing a people you didn't create,
Solution is your cunning bait
But your weapon is merciless hate.
The stains on your lab coat is deceit,
Your agenda and past records you can't delete.
Ply your experiments in this evil's - smithy,
Poisoned-chalice to heal sounds pretty?
Not fitting. Your vaccine is the assassin;
Medicine from Tennessee tested on the Edisons
Might not be antidote in Benin for the Bensons.
Alfred Tennyson's Ulysses too surmount enemies
And so will we cos Africa is not a lab place.
Grind away! Moistenly mash up your paste,
Abort the mission to lay Africa waste.
We'll chew kola at your tricks - we're not in haste!
Not in haste to dine with ancestors & kings,
We'll dance to batá, gongon, base guitar & strings
While our liberty & redemption comes in a collabo.
Africa is definitely not your labo!
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © December, 2020.
A strangely solitary child
Allowed to wander around
The working Forge and
The foundry ground
Unaware then
That it couldn’t last
And I was quietly recording
A fast approaching past.
It darted here,
It danced there,
Applying force with
Precision and care.
Here a tap,
There a thump,
Turning that once
Near molten iron lump
Into a shape
Of near precision
Each blow landed
With skill and decision.
Each piece judged
Solely by eye
Before quenching water’s
Acrid hiss bubble and sigh.
Uncle’s old hammer
Would peal and ring
Making his old anvil
Vibrate and sing.
Shires and Hunters shod,
Machinery cleaned and mended
A myriad of essential tasks
To be organised and tended.
When that Old Forge was
Full of movement and creation
With a craft that thrived then died
In a single changing generation.
Preserved for posterity it now stands
There in the old Smithy ground
I wonder if Uncle’s old hammer
Has still been kept around.
Ah King Kane.. you’ve done it again
Heavenly humility hums on a simply higher plane..
Angelic ability strums..curious necks studious crane
Classical charms forever waver but won’t wistfully wane
Professorial textbook tutorials..clever rhapsodies of restrain
Classy but never brassy..balletic lullabies of lyrical refrain
Dizzying dedication..insane..education.. epiphanies explain how to train
Eureka seeker...aurora explorer..yielded iconic pedagogic logic..
Willow wielded wonders sprinkled with sparkle…
Heroic champagne campaign shielded possible debacle..
Kane stoic no pretence…venerates poetic defence…purringly prophetic
Guiles..wiles.. bewitch…bamboozling composure..silky smooth aesthetic
Was it just a jest…Smithy did suggest …Kane’s last ever test
No more communions…timber timbre tickles..more highlights than Bucks Fizz reunions
Elan fans wish…our Lord of the Rings on the pitch across the ditch.. baggy green disdain
Stratospheric.. slayed & flayed by a Sorcerer’s blade
Precision magician…traditional technician
Mesmeric mercurial master…history made
The last post gong sounds like a love song
Ah Captain Kane you’ve only gone and done it again
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
***
November 30, 2019
F G I series 19 satire
Brian Strand, sponsor
***
Poetry notes:
05/26/2019
In the context of this poem, "Wordsmith" refers to any who attempt to mislead by using fake news or disinformation.
***
The young generation, who believe in dissolution,
promulgating the manifesto
“tradition is the grave of the banality,
only solecism is the quickening of new life…”
yell upholding a flag similar to a bad check
which is unable to secure the needed guarantee for the debt.
They are sycophantic speculators hopping on the bandwagon
of the time, they are nothing but a product of a certain moment
of the swinging pendulum, their unfounded thought changes in consonance with the direction and the amplitude of the pendulum.
Although they think highly of themselves,
they assert themselves as the forerunner of the times,
actually, they are unbridled reckless colts jumping, hopping,
and running blindly in the wilderness.
They consider heteronomy as a shackle,
they, therefore, rush to a smithy and heat the shackles to cut it off,
they insist upon autonomy as the beat of the heart,
they, therefore, lay on the cold operating table to cut it open
to see the inside of the heart bearing an excruciating pain
but they found it full of red and blue blood
clotted in two atrium and two ventricles, the blood
contaminated with filthy and turbid human minds
which carried on from generations of generations
of past unchanged.
They try to ascend their thoughts, nonetheless,
above the traditional ones, it’s nothing more than
a word game, a disgusting prank.
Are they mad? Though they cannot even jump
nor have wings, they try to fly,
ah, poor generation, ill, crooked, lost,
who were not even touched by a drop of Medusa’s
poisonous blood, flap wings imitating Pegasus about to fly.
A smithy peers into a white hot
Ingot formed square
Seeing the idea of a meaning
Form there
How many turns at the anvil
How many soakings
In the heat
Long sweating hours hammering
Out her beat
The shape of the curve
Coaxed, twisted
Unnerve
Rough forged
Dimpled and scaled
The infant soul struggles
To be released
Feverishly filing
Sanding
Blasting
Pausing...
Was that too much
Sleep on it
Dream of it
Put her on the table
Wait for her to speak
To cry out for your care
Grow into your dream
Polish until her sparkling
Truth is revealed
The word smith
Gazes in awe
She has been the midwife
Servant and guide through the
Strife
Chaos
Of meanings life