It is by forging that one becomes a blacksmith.
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If you're a blacksmith, probably the proudest day of your life is when you get your first anvil. How innocent you are, little blacksmith.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The blacksmith in one village becomes a blacksmith's apprentice in another.
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stranger
I met him on the way last sunday
He said that he is a Postmaster
I said how glad to meet him
and I gave him some letters to post.
I met him again, yes the same person on monday.
He said that he knows my father and he too a blacksmith.
Then I gave him a knife to sharpen.
I met him at the cemetery gravel road on Tuesday.
Yes, the same gentleman.
He said that he is a Pawnbroker, he knows my mother well
and he lives behind the cemetery.
I gave him my wedding ring and begged for money.
He took it and ran away.
One day when I was just passing the graveyard I saw his tomb with a photograph.
and this was written.
'Once a post master
and a blacksmith
killed a pawnbroker
died as a gambler'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Everyone is the blacksmith of his own fortune.
If you talk to the blacksmith you'll get hit by sparks.
A piece of iron can only become what the blacksmith says it should become.
If the metal is not good, you cannot take it out on the blacksmith.
What business does a dog have in the shop of the blacksmith.
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 locksmith is the guilty one, but the blacksmith hangs.