#forge
Must heat and red devour on dark,
whilst ferrum's fuelled with rage?
Must the flames bloom amidst the sky,
whilst we feed the furnace coal?
Achtung ! Dichtung ! the song of steel,
may fill the forging halls,
Schreien und die in agony,
ductile-brittle the ****
Come fourth let's quench the iron's yearn,
lest it strengthen to core,
And forge with pride and wit along,
the tools of our fight,
A crescent for hands who grant the grain,
A hammer to pound our blade !
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 9:48 PM UTC
To forge a poem,
A bar not resinous.
To steal a fire
From top a precipice.
To bear the heat
Of finite flames.
Embrace the hurt,
Engulf the pain.
Feel your wrist
Become alight,
Feel your hand
Begin to write,
Feel your thoughts
Escape the brink,
And feel your pen
Run off its ink.
Sparked inspiration
Ignites internal,
And burning paper
Becomes infernal.
Ashes, scorching
Stack in piles,
And ashen writing
Line in files.
A dying fire
Has lost its flare,
So write again
If you so dare.
Just light your hand
Ablaze again,
Consume the torch,
And raise your pen.
Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 8:53 PM UTC
Forged by one's own hand so sharp a blade.
Cast by the universes strongest powers.
A forge so intense in heat and fire.
Bonds as strong as any smithed steel.
No artery immune to it's strikes and piercings.
Vulnerability at it's every mortal ******
Yet still we choose to love.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 10:30 AM UTC
Iron graces my tongue
Hephaestus' ferrous fire
My song won't be sung
accompanied by drum or lyre
This won't end
never now or later
See the burns
on your most worthy opponent
See how far
how far you bent
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC
it's our laughter that
bound us;
the moment of camaraderie
new friendship being born
unsure whether this'll be thorn
or storm
and i sat there, torn
unsure where to go from here
a welcoming clasp
palm on palm, fingers
coiled around one another
a peace treaty, a clap of agreement
a silent pact between us
" i gotchu"
a " thank you"
a smile here
a couple more there
am offer for selfless help
and pride in me
pride in you
teamwork.
teamwork,
that forged out friendship
and i thank you
for all your help
all of it.
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 7:27 AM UTC
The Forge
by Michael R. Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arm’s-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool
of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...
And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.
A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse, Trinacria, Poetry Life & Times, and Famous Poets and Poems
NOTE: This is a sonnet about forging sonnets. The gray "anvil" is the human brain. The fiery "glow" is the poetic imagination. The cooling and shaping are the process of revision. The hammer is the poet's pen, producing order out of chaos. Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, poem, indestructible, irreducible, hammer, anvil, forge, labor, fashioning, shape, smithy, blacksmith, ironworker, sword, pen
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
what we become in
rejection to the templates
we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it
Sep 28, 2019
Sep 28, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC
It is a new day
Today will always be fresh
What is on your mind
Assume that today will be
Will be the start of something
Something unlike yesterday
Take hold of these times
Times can not be repeated
Forge new memories
Brian Hill - # 234
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 8:23 AM UTC
Being rescued
At the eleventh hour
Is not for
The faint of heart
Looking doom
Straight in the eye
Knowing I could be taken down
At any moment
Letting go
And holding on
All in the same moment
Getting to rock bottom
This is my journey
How I get to my truth
For only through
The heat of the forge
Am I made whole
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 11:57 AM UTC
The birthplace of weapons.
The backbone of wars.
No sound but the throes of steel.
In fires that burn, unending.
Shaped by the beating of the blacksmith.
Each stroke, manifesting his will.
To forge the weapon of prophecy;
The sword to lead us to victory.
Bathed in the blood of its enemies.
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 6:01 AM UTC
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
torn from the comforts of an idle home
Against both will and wish into the forge
Mere foot to pedal unshackles the horde
onto that which was ****** into the dome
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
Crude earth melts into an effulgent form
that once cooled will become harder than stone
Against both will and wish into the forge
Burning is sequestered by drowning boards
that go unnoticed but for hissing moan
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword
New pain begins despite what came before
anvil and hammer fashion the unknown
Against both will and wish into the forge
Those who endure will still need to be honed,
to be, of their own soul, the highest lord.
Iron and coal fused into a steel sword,
against both will and wish into the forge
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
This is the biggest lie
The mirror told me;
Don't speak.
Why?
People can hurt you when they
know too much.
Will they?
Can they?
Yes, when?
Yesterday.
I don't remember that.
Because you think you know it
all, stupid boy.
I don't.
Good, because you don't, you're
wrong. That's right.
I think I need to speak to someone
But you have me; I know
everything
Mirror, mirror
On the – communal - wall
Where strangers **** and ****
And always avoid eye contact
There's power in silence
But then how will I find things out for
myself, if I am quiet always?
Know the power of knowledge,
ledge of knowing
What if I fall off this ledge?
You think too highly of yourself,
you're shallow it won't hurt.
Right.
Or is it wrong, I told you to be quiet and you still speak.
Nobody listens to silence
- Quiet **** -
Tie the noose for one's
- Own neck -
Maybe the small knife from
- The kitchen -
To carve on flesh, escape from
- My skin -
I want to keep it safe, not scarred
- Not always -
Fatal, just curious.
-Does that make sense?-
It's not real. Let me ask someone I think
-I trust-
Stop dreaming!
I can't control that.
You said this was your body,
you're control?
But that's different.
See, you're not always right!
It's not bad to be wrong,
sometimes.
Then why are you still speaking?
I'd like to lie down now.
Okay.
What sacrifice will I leave to the beast?
“Kind can be the inflicted, and also the ignorant.
Gracious can be the dark; or else too the light.
Afraid are the lost, and so too the able.
Bliss is real”.
But you aren't kind!
Neither are you.
Gracious? Look at your posture.
I'm looking.
Are you telling me I am old?
Sometimes.
Filth. You are ignorant.
I am going to light a candle now.
There is a church I walk past everyday. It is orange, not like the fruit, but like the sand when the sun is half way between this land and another. When the skin of water is cool, and not blue like the crayon drawings' of a child. Sometimes I want to knock on the heavy, mahogany door of the church. Not for permission to enter; I want to know how thick the door is. Orange with dark spots, that is how I remember the church. Points to the sky, and I would need to take a detour to see it close. I am always late, maybe one day I will be later. You said I could just wake up earlier; I told you I will not do that.
You must love yourself,
look how many mirrors are in
here, ha! Just kidding. This is cool.
Ha, I know. I love and hate mirrors.
Really?
They're tender and tough. Depends
who's looking. Does that make
sense? I want to
say more about them, but there's
not enough words.
I've never thought of a mirror
like that before.
And I've never thought that I can
stop thinking that way about
mirrors.
Do you want some more water?
There's no more in the fridge, but
let me get some from the bathroom
sink. It's better from there.
Don't worry, I'll go. You're tired.
Neither quick or slow, but delicately, he walks to the bathroom. I hear the door open, the light switch on, a pause. He walks, runs the sink; I can hear the glass filling. It is a small apartment, and the walls are weak. He turns the tap off, the flick of darkness and I can hear his footprints returning. He hands me the glass; I know it is cold before I touch the glass because of the condensation. His fingerprints are there, and so too are mine. He relaxes his shoulder against mine, presses his lip to my ear. His breathing is calm, like the water at the beach. Then that small chuckle, I hear him, exhale. Hard and protective, like the door of the church. Stable and seductive, I know he is going to tell me his witness, or a joke.
You don't have mirrors in your bathroom.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
What to write, what to write
hand me down my quill
Prose me words, so eloquent
and happiness, instill
What to write, what to write
something, that inspires kings
Words that fire the heart and soul
gives all eagles, regal wings
What to write, what to write
a wall within my mind
Searching darker and deeper haunts
not knowing, what, I'll find
What to say, what to do
to stir the *** or kettle
What can I be, what can I see
forging, poetic, mettle
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 8:24 AM UTC
The mists that part,
By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds,
They open wide,
The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
What died before,
Comes forth once more,
The serpent's wings are spread,
On Hallow's Eve,
That sacrifice,
Begins the year again,
Forth from the well,
Between the worlds,
Scaled form returns once more,
A new year dawns,
In dark moon light,
And all begins once more,
Upon her forge,
New year is wrought,
By hammer and by flame,
The raven's call,
The hope of all,
As she forges the year again,
Now the births,
In springtime snows,
In cold and solemn moons,
Keeper of Ways,
Builder of Paths,
Takes now the regency,
Misrule is done,
That tide is turned,
Bride's Time has come again,
The Trouble Moon,
It parts and passes,
The Lost Moon begins again.
And awakened now,
The serpent old,
Begins a journey home,
As they open wide,
The gates of night,
And allow things to pass both ways,
For the mists that part,
By Bride's Day light,
Are mists between the worlds.
~Mists Between the Worlds, a Candlemas poem by Lorekeeper, February 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
the life you have hitherto Refined
whence love shall wax and wane
cannot know Hephaestus's grief
for you and he are not the same.
now Steel your restless heart,
and from it, Forge the demon's bane
lest your senseless grief, in Fires
of boldest Mettle, wrong you all the same.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
A kid with a dark childhood
So **** shy and misunderstood
His inability to understand
Leaves him underhanded
As he tries to draw the line between
Foe and friend
He's heard so much talk and walked a lot
He remembers the rage, one day almost forgot
And ever since then, well never again
Because it was the day he faced his end
What man forged would forge his skin
Into a purple and white ugly grin
Traces it with a finger, trembling and cold
No, he could never forget the days of old
Though being not old himself, a youth he is
Still the saying is appropriate, so don't dismiss
The fact that the one thing that killed him but kept him alive
Was a memory, simply directed to reminisce
A vengeful beast, a loyal wolf
Two sides of the same coin that frequently duel
Contradiction to himself, as if someone else,
Murderous thoughts his mind did dwell
Now picture a teenager, dressed in black
Hoodie and jeans, and a black half-mask
See his cold dark eyes, now tell me fast,
Is he both victim and the one who attacks?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
He is a tinkerer.
Through his eyes he sees only cogs and turning gears,
His fingers, they feel only bolts and nuts and screws,
He's doesn't understand her, he doesn't get her tears,
To him her sentiments, they are nothing if not new,
So he tries to fix her. He pieces the broken shells of her heart together,
Together the shells weigh a pound, but individually they float like a feather,
He glues and welds her heart together with his mixtures of metals,
But he doesn't understand that these shells are like rose bud petals,
Delicately they flow, and the slightest touch makes them break,
But in time, they bloom prettier than a sunset on a shimmering lake,
No, he doesn't understand. So he welds and forges the pieces together,
He is a tinkerer.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
He was born with a builder's hands,
But has a poet's heart,
In reality he is a slave,
But in his mind he is free,
The shackles, they bind him to these lands,
They exist, but they are not for us to see,
For they are mental constraints, and they cannot be shaken loose.
But there is freedom in all things, even in slavery,
We cannot see this though. He can.
He's different from us. Where we see endings and walls, he sees milestones,
Who is this man, who will wait for the night, till the cold claims his bones?
Who is this man, who prefers the night to the day for it bears the audience of the stars?
Who is this man, who knows not the art of speech, but makes men cry with his words?
Who is this man, who gazes upon a girl and sees not a girl, but a universe and perfection?
Who is this smith who craft's blades strong but forges hearts adamantine?
He is a wordsmith.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
Fling yourself at his feet and leave your fate in his sole grey eye
His tree was of the world
but his secrets were his alone
He wasn't an All Father
His wine was spiced with blood
Men know the price of madness
but what of boys
Left to shape their bodies in the forge
For some, there had been no hammer
Except the one they held
No water to cool their molten steel
Except for the well they found
But the fire was fed all day long
Liquid metal writing on the surface spilling into one shape and out of another
Over and over
No weapon can forge itself
But **** it
I'll try
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
It's over!
Its behind me
I've let it go
The pain that held me ransom in its throes
No longer hurting,
No longer killer
My life is much more complete and fuller
I've learnt my lessons, my time beckons
A chance to live now freely
A time to discover
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Nobody was born here
But we'll die here
Sink into this rough soil
And fertilize a tree.
And that tree will grow leaves,
And come fall baby,
People will come from all over just to see them drift away from the thing that gave them life.
Nobody was born here
But then again,
No one knows what "here" even means
The meaning was lost in years and years of general nonchalance
It sounds beautiful,
But ****** if we know how to explain it.
Nobody was born here,
But we can choose to call it home.
We can choose to grow old here,
And we can choose to die here.
And if we don't know how to define it, then that leaves a blank we can fill in with anything we want
No matter what
Anything at all.
And if that means you sink into this rough soil,
Just to fertilize one tree,
Then come fall, baby
People will come from all over just to see your leaves change and drift,
And baby,
That means you're beautiful.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 5:52 PM UTC