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Shovel And Tongs
The Poker proposed to the shovel
That they should be man and wife,
'I think,' said he, 'that we could agree
As we journey along through life.'
The Shovel blushed as she answered,
'I thank you kindly, Mister,
But my promise belongs to the faithful Tongs,
So I only can be your sister.'
And when the couple were married
The Stove gave the Shovel away;
And it seemed too bad that the Poker, poor lad,
Was the Tongs' best man on that day.
But the Poker soon after was wedded
To the hearth broom, slender and slick;
And 'twas whispered about Mrs. Tongs was put out
Because he found comfort so quick.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Forging Ahead
Places to go! Places to see!
The tiger started well.
Life's journey was a mystery!
What next? He couldn't tell!
The water was his challenge now...
So slip-purr-y below...
He was forging ahead somehow...
Where to? He didn't know!
His paws were muddy, yet he tried
To reach the other shore...
Onlookers thought that he could glide
And watched him even more...
He told himself he mustn't slip!
That's why he did his best!
He coasted gently like a ship
That sailed from East to West...
Forging ahead! Some progress made!
The distant shore drew near...
By faith, he'd stepped in unafraid!
That's how he'd made it here...
Then suddenly, in waters deep,
The tiger had to swim...
And forward motion had to keep,
With him no longer slim!
Stiff upper lip and all that stuff!
He paddled, plodding on...
While the going was getting tough,
His strength was not yet gone!
He made it! Yes, success was his!
He sniggered, full of glee!
And in that time of purr-fect bliss,
His joy was plain to see...
He swaggered cross the sands beyond,
As if a thoroughbred!
Like every tiger who is fond
Of always forging ahead...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Forging Ahead'.
poem by Denis Martindale
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We are cooling. We are not warming. The warming you see out there, the supposed warming, and I use my finger quotation marks here, is part of the cooling process.
quote by Michael Steele
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sword
THE FORGING OF THE SWORD.
At the forging of the Sword--
The mountain roots were stirr'd,
Like the heart-beats of a bird;
Like flax the tall trees wav'd,
So fiercely struck the Forgers of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
So loud the hammers fell,
The thrice seal'd gates of Hell,
Burst wide their glowing jaws;
Deep roaring, at the forging of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
Kind mother Earth was rent,
Like an Arab's dusky tent,
And monster-like she fed--
On her children; at the forging of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
So loud the blows they gave,
Up sprang the panting wave;
And blind and furious slew,
Shrill-shouting to the Forgers of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
The startled air swift whirl'd
The red flames round the world,
From the Anvil where was smitten,
The steel, the Forgers wrought into the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
The Maid and Matron fled,
And hid them with the dead;
Fierce prophets sang their doom,
More deadly, than the wounding of the Sword.
At the forging of the Sword--
Swift leap'd the quiet hearts,
In the meadows and the marts;
The tides of men were drawn,
By the gleaming sickle-planet of the Sword!
* * * * *
Thus wert thou forged, O lissome sword;
On such dusk anvil wert thou wrought;
In such red flames thy metal fused!
From such deep hells that metal brought;
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
Less than the Gods by some small span,
Slim sword, how great thy lieges be!
Glint but in _one_ wild camp-fire's light,
Thy God-like vassals rush to thee.
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
Sharp, God, how vast thy altars be!
Green vallies, sacrificial cups,
Flow with the purple lees of blood;
Its smoke is round the mountain tops.
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord!
O amorous God, fierce lover thou!
Bright sultan of a million brides,
Thou know'st no rival to _thy_ kiss,
Thy loves are _thine_ whate're betides,
O sword, dread lord, thou speak'st no word,
But dumbly rul'st, king and lord.
Unflesh thee, sword! No more, no more,
Thy steel no more shall sting and shine,
Pass thro' the fusing fires again;
And learn to prune the laughing vine.
Fall sword, dread lord, with one accord,
The plough and hook we'll own as lord!
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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The person who has burned their fingers often asks for tongs.
The Broom, the Shovel, the Poker and the Tongs
The Broom and the Shovel, the Poker and Tongs,
They all took a drive in the Park,
and they each sang a song, Ding-a-dong, Ding-a-dong,
Before they went back in the dark.
Mr Poker he sate quite upright in the coach,
Mr Tongs made a clatter and clash,
Miss Shovel was dressed all in black (with a brooch),
Mrs Broom was in blue (with a sash).
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
And they all sang a song!
'O Shovely so lovely!' the Poker he sang,
'You have perfectly conquered my heart!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong! If you're pleased with my song,
I will feed you with cold apple tart!
When you scrape up the coals with a delicate sound,
You enrapture my life with delight!
Your nose is so shiny! your head is so round!
And your shape is so slender and bright!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
Ain't you pleased with my song?'
'Alas! Mrs Broom!' sighed the Tongs in his song,
'O is it because I'm so thin,
And my legs are so long - Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
That you don't care about me a pin?
Ah! fairest of creatures, when sweeping the room,
Ah! why don't you heed my complaint!
Must you needs be so cruel, you beautiful Broom,
Because you are covered with paint!
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
You are certainly wrong!'
Mrs Broom and Miss Shovel together they sang,
'What nonsense you're singing today!'
Said the Shovel, 'I'll certainly hit you a bang!'
Said the Broom, 'And I'll sweep you away!'
So the Coachman drove homeward as fast as he could,
Perceiving their anger with pain;
But they put on the kettle, and little by little,
They all became happy again.
Ding-a-dong! Ding-a-dong!
There's an end of my song!
poem by Edward Lear
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It is by forging that one becomes a blacksmith.
An Outburst Of Feelings
when he takes in air, there is no thought of air
just air filling the emptiness of his lungs
air tasted by his nostrils air drifting on the linings of his esophagus
there is no discussion about what is air all about its color its angle
this is just air expanding and filling and cooling him
he sees more of air when he closes his eyes and be with air
united, immersed, entwined, amused, becoming so engrossed
there are no numbers nothing to calculate
there is this outburst of feelings of unknown emotions
life getting in like air, like water, like this lovely feeling
dripping, catching, drinking, savoring, filling, cooling....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Nutcrackers and the Sugar-Tongs
The Nutcrackers sate by a plate on the table,
The Sugar-tongs sate by a plate at his side;
And the Nutcrackers said, 'Don't you wish we were able
'Along the blue hills and green meadows to ride?
'Must we drag on this stupid existence for ever,
'So idle so weary, so full of remorse,--
'While every one else takes his pleasure, and never
'Seems happy unless he is riding a horse?
II
'Don't you think we could ride without being instructed?
'Without any saddle, or bridle, or spur?
'Our legs are so long, and so aptly constructed,
'I'm sure that an accident could not occur.
'Let us all of a sudden hop down from the table,
'And hustle downstairs, and each jump on a horse!
'Shall we try? Shall we go! Do you think we are able?'
The Sugar-tongs answered distinctly,'Of course!'
III
So down the long staircase they hopped in a minute,
The Sugar-tongs snapped, and the Crackers said 'crack!'
The stable was open, the horses were in it;
Each took out a pony, and jumped on his back.
The Cat in a fright scrambled out of the doorway,
The Mice tumbled out of a bundle of hay,
The brown and white Rats, and the black ones from Norway,
Screamed out, 'They are taking the horses away!'
IV
The whole of the household was filled with amazement,
The Cups and the Saucers danced madly about,
The Plates and the Dishes looked out of the casement,
The Saltcellar stood on his head with a shout,
The Spoons with a clatter looked out of the lattice,
The Mustard-pot climbed up the Gooseberry Pies,
The Soup-ladle peeped through a heap of Veal Patties,
And squeaked with a ladle-like scream of surprise.
V
The Frying-pan said, 'It's an awful delusion!'
The Tea-kettle hissed and grew black in the face;
And they all rushed downstairs in the wildest confusion,
To see the great Nutcracker-Sugar-tong race.
And out of the stable, with screamings and laughter,
(Their ponies were cream-coloured, speckled with brown,)
The Nutcrackers first, and the Sugar-tongs after,
Rode all round the yard, and then all round the town.
VI
They rode through the street, and they rode by the station,
They galloped away to the beautiful shore;
In silence they rode, and 'made no observation',
Save this: 'We will never go back any more!'
And still you might hear, till they rode out of hearing,
The Sugar-tongs snap, and the Crackers say 'crack!'
Till far in the distance their forms disappearing,
They faded away. -- And they never came back!
poem by Edward Lear
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But it is no good using the tongs of reason to pull the Fundamentalists' chestnuts out of the fire of contradiction. Their real troubles lie elsewhere.
quote by Garrett Hardin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This amateurism however, can sometimes be helpful in forging a style; you have to work around your weaknesses.
quote by Bill Bruford
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The farther behind I leave the past, the closer I am to forging my own character.
quote by Isabelle Eberhardt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The anvil of justice is planted firm, and fate who makes the sword does the forging in advance.
Tongs
Tongs, song, so, on, ton, not, no, go, to, got, son;
Here i am my love with the muse of romance,
But send me your rose to satisfy my mind!
And like a small parcel full of surprises.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Rapid Fire
Pounding the world like a battering ram
Forging the furnace for the final grand slam
Chopping away at the source soon the course will be done
Leaving a trail of destruction thats second to none
Hammering anvils straining muscle and might
Shattering blows crashing browbeating fright
Fast devastating and desolisating the curse
Blasting the cannons of truth through each man of this earth
Wielding the axe comes the one culmination
Thats always seemed certain to bring down the curtain on greed
Sifting the good from the bad its the age for the rage
Of the dogs which must fall to the just and be free
Now grate for the vandals who trampled and sampled
Till this place conditioned brought forth demolition to war
The slipping and sliding corrosive subsiding
That withered and wained till the world seemed all drained fills the bay
Pounding the world like a battering ram
Forging the furnace for the final grand slam
Chopping away at the source soon the course will be done
Leaving a trail of destruction thats second to none
Second to none
song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There is no longer a way out of our present situation except by forging a road toward our objective, violently and by force, over a sea of blood and under a horizon blazing with fire.
quote by Gamal Abdel Nasser
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time passed by. I had furnished steam hammers to the principal foundries in England. I had sent them abroad, even to Russia. At length it became known to the Lords of the Admiralty that a new power in forging had been introduced.
quote by James Nasmyth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We are dissipating superstition, ignorance and fear. We are forging courage, will and knowledge. Every striving toward enlightenment is welcome. Every prejudice, caused by ignorance, is exposed.
quote by Nicholas Roerich
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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