Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Hayley Neininger Mar 2012
The anvil sky—
The sky that presses its weight down
Heavy against the earth
Compacting the old snow of winter
Dense and thick and complete
So tight the snow warms against itself
It melts.
Only for the anvil’s cold metal to
Freeze the snow to ice.
Locking in the roots of spring
Behind dirt cast bars under
Ice clear windows.
Far up in the anvil sky
There are tiny lights like nails
Hotter than the icy metal
Burning through and warming up—
Small spots like holes in snow
Where daises will surely grow.
Michael Vukmer Mar 2013
The cool winter air makes the grass sway like the ocean's waves.
Makes the limbs of trees, both young and old, dance fancifully without care of who's watching.
The brilliant sun, bold as it is, is shy this morn
Only peaking over the icy mountain tops.
The sky is as clear and beautiful as a newly forged glass sculpture.

As I turn around, I see my home,
The furnace still warm from yesterday's work
sits quietly in the center
The bellow, old with use
waits impatiently for it's next push
The anvil, stubborn with age
tightens it's muscles, prepared for the torment of the day
The mallet and hammer, young with ambition
remember the creations so recently forged with creativity
The ground is riddled with steel and coal
The grass here is burnt and covered with the now stagnant embers of the furnace
The walls are filled with the tools of my trade,
all made in this very place.

The day has begun.
I act with repetition as I have so many days and nights prior.
I lay fresh coals upon the furnace
I push the bellow with all my strength
The furnace begins to roar with vigor like a newly awoken bear
I pull new, unworked steel from the bin
Laying the steel upon the fire,
I can see the color change and shift rapidly
I prepare the hammer and mallet for use, and hear their excitement fill this place
Pulling the steel from the fire, I lay it upon the grouchy anvil.
Then I begin my work of creation.
Hammer meets steel,
sparks and embers fly,
steel morphs it's shape,
the day is now warm in this place.

For hours, this process continues
The furnace only grows warmer,
The bellow only grows more worn,
The anvil only tires with work,
The mallet and hammer only become more ecstatic.
Until the creation is complete.

The day is complete.
The wind has all but ceased.
The grass now as still as all the sleeping creatures.
The trees' festival is complete.
The air is now freezing.
The furnace is cooling again,
The bellow is at peace again,
The anvil is relaxed again,
The mallet and hammer are quiet again.

I sit here now, watching the sun retreat behind the lake.
It's setting as colorful as a painting.
My work today is done,
My tools are silent,
My creation is complete.
I too, can now bask in the serenity of the night.
1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i
SøułSurvivør May 2015
---

the desert lies in wait
the anvil of the sun
it's creatures know their fate
'fore the summer has begun
the heat will either ****
as surely as a gun
or folk bend to its will
the weather's cruelty to shun

the parched and dusty soil
waits for the summer rains
these will quench or spoil
flooding down arroyo drains
water weeps - the El Nino
great winds rip the plains
like an eagle's cry they echo
destroy in their refrains

the weather makes or breaks you
whether fire or killing frost
the farmer is the one who
pays the greatest cost
every year the price is dear
so much to be lost
temperatures to soar
the earth is torn or tossed

but the people of Sonora
already have begun
to feel It's powerful aura

the anvil of the sun


soulsurvivor
(c) 5/19/2015
every year hikers pass out
from the heat, and die in the desert

be warned - the sun is as Vulcan
not the character on Star Trek
tho he has pointy ears

HE CAN BE A DEVIL

---
For the Sparrows Feb 2013
It is not the city air that ignites the forge
It is the wind the that weaves through the souls of its people
It is the spark that lives in the artists heart.
And the Blacksmith, mighty Blacksmith.
Sets all into motion.
So I place my dreams upon the anvil.
Apprentice & Master ****** hammers as fire forges the heart.
Blacksmith, He who breathes the wind that flows through all righteous ambition.
The desire to create.
The desire to change.
City. It is good to be back.
The coals are burning.
comments and suggestions welcome :) result of returning to my home in the city.
softcomponent Jan 2014
setting myself down on an anvil pillow. sleep is an anvil pillow. anvil and stone are a suicide dressed in 8 hours of mini-Godheads.. you become a repeat offender in the ever expanding realm of emerging fractal patterns sewn upon the quilt you lay across your sleepy bones like rushing water in an underground cave miles below the Yucatan Peninsula..

by electronic firelight they lay on my leather couch with the scraps of bedding I could afford to share, as if for some reason I can't escape the money analogy and see this, too, as a transaction.. buying.. a transaction.. as transfat is to nutrition.. money is tao.. my hate for money is tao.. I'm a love-and-lost buddhist like every other dreamer before me.

I'm tired of giving myself a *******.

All I ever give myself is a *******.

I refuse to bend over and at least try to give me a *******, or go to the next level in love and **** myself.

I keep telling me to do it. Keep grabbing my own *** during passionate tongue-twisters but I keep on insisting that I just CAN'T go any further.. rationally I may be right, but irrationally I still get shrieks of jealousy because I see that ******* sneaking out to kiss girls all the ******* time as if I didn't exist. As if I wasn't always watching.

I stalk myself. It's a terrifying state of affairs. No matter where I go, there I am.

Watching.

One night, I invited me over, and as usual, I gave myself a *******, yet refused to go any further.

This was the straw that cracked the camels back.. and come 4 AM I kissed myself softly on the forehead as I slept and slipped into the night, hailing the first taxi to sail past me on the concrete river.

I awoke slowly the next morning and.. still dazed.. noticed I was nowhere to be found.

A great grief flooded my solar plexus and moved into my hopeless bones.

I had not even left a note. What a ******* I am!

I had not even left a note.

The rest of the day was spent in sordid grievance. I shivered, lonely, under my ever expanding realm of emerging fractal patterns sewn upon the quilt I lay across my sleepy bones like rushing water in an underground cave miles below the Yucatan Peninsula..
John Sep 2012
I said
"No."
But I really meant
"Yes."
You said
"Go."
But you really meant
"Stay."

And so I went
Never heard from again

I thought
"Maybe one day."
But the words never made it out alive
Things never seem to go my way
And so I cut you off and threw you out
Like a rotting limb
Which is what you are but there's no doubt
That your touch infects my skin

Spreading in and deepening
I get down to my knees
Never was sure about what was happening
What's the difference between a manipulatorand a tease?
Screaming through the wire
We took our final breath together
Hearts and lungs consumed by fire
To the street goes an anvil shaped like a feather
Sally A Bayan Oct 2016
::::::::for SPT::::::::
(10w x 5)



...reading  you,
i see, feel
a huge anvil,
overwhelming
possessing


.........i'd fly
lift the anvil
swoop you
and loved ones


i'd free you all
from what's been
weighing you down


then, relift the anvil
drop it
where it really belongs:


...upon free, delusional souls,
who must be controlled,
[maimed]
[permanently]


  


Sally


Copyright October14, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...I wish I could tell you, "I've got your back," ...I wish I could do it, and more...
This weight on my chest

This feeling of 100 punches to my gut

The pounding of hammers in my head

The feeling of a blade slip through my fingers

The smell of iron in the air as the thick red water drips and flows

All these pains and yet the worst feeling I've felt was the crushing blows of your words echoing in my ears.

Your words weighing heavily on my heart like an Anvil defying physics.

I feel the pressure and it's caving in...
ryn Jan 2015
I feel your heart's heavy
and your mind trailing off to places
I'm not allowed to go...
- Dajena M


My body...
Lays battered under unforgiving weather
I amble forth with unsure
In search of pastures much greener

My face...
Wears my despair
Mirrors wouldn't recognise
Reflecting back a faceless stare

My eyes...
Stung red with tears
Conveying the murmurs from my soul
Clouded by despondence that never clears

My limbs...
Bent awkward with time
Arms hang lifeless; legs sore from bearing
Load of my past of crime

My mind...
Trails in the wake of fallen dreams
Searching for an oasis
Instead finding only brackish streams

My soul...
Holds the weight of an anvil
Still I trudge to the farthest reaches
Through barren lands where all is still

My heart...
Yet beats with rhythm so true
It keeps me alive
It gifts to me...

**you...
Line take off Dajena M's "I... is hier", for Frank Ruland's, "Let's Do A Line!" challenge.

I am big fan of Dajena's poems and very much inspired by the depth of her writes.

I chose the line I did because I could relate to the message being conveyed. More often than not, we get caught in a place where we're left with only questions. We know the "what" but not the "why", "when" and "how". We only know so much therefore we can only afford to speculate. Then poem just wrote itself.

Thank you so much Ms. D for your continuous support and being such an inspiration!
ryn Nov 2016
The light touches
of the wind,
caress the blush
in reddened cheeks.

Gentle fingers abscond
with the moisture
in hapless tears.

Teasing playfully,
the obstinacy
of wayward strands.

Inciting a smile
from a heavy heart,
lifting off the anvil
that carry all fears.
Searle May 2014
Terrorism, ****,
Car bomb, *******...
She feels vulnerable,
No love to keep her warm

9/11, kidnap,
Human trafficking...
She’s been forgotten,
Left alone in the dark

Serial killers, H1N1,
Child molesters, ***...
She shudders with the cold,
And Port Au Prince is flattened

Hijack, ******,
Drive-by shootings...
She feels groggy,
Influenza sets in

Weapons of mass destruction,
Cuban nuclear tests...
There starts a tingle in her nose,
Her eyes pinch shut

Genocide, organs on the black market,
Xenophobia, suicide bombers...
With a bellow from her bowels,
From flaming ice the cumulus anvil that infects the world
In memory of the Iceland volcano
matt d mattson Jun 2012
Have you forgotten?
The Iron
The Fire
The hammer and anvil of it all
The pile of **** and scrap metal
The dirt ore heap in the corner of your soul
The useless heavy burden
On your shoulders, and in the heart of you

Have you forgotten the forging and the beating
The sweating and the bleeding
The swing and the crash,
And the pain and the smash;
The heat from the fires that purify
And the hiss from the waters that solidify
Have you missed the bending and folding
and the way that you're constantly molding?

Have you forgotten
You are the hammer
You are the anvil
You are the iron and the forge fire
That creates the steel of your character
The sharp sweeping sword of your soul
For no one else can change you
Except for you

So slam the hammer down!
Swing it without flinching
Tense yourself, your muscles your nerves and sinews
Grit your teeth and clench your jaw
Grip the metal like a white knuckled vice of certainty
Focus on the spot and
Slam the Hammer Down!
Beat it into something useful
Beat if into something beautiful
Beat it with meaning for it is meaningful!
Did you forget that!

No, You did not forget
You dreamed of throwing it off,
You dreamed of being rid of it
You  hoped to wake one day
And find that it had melted away

But

“You cannot dream yourself into a character:
you must hammer and forge yourself into one.”
― Henry David Thoreau
Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye.
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
Silence is not golden,
it's lead
& drags you down.

You feel impure
smoldering in the kettles,
bubbling,
waiting for the hammer to drop.

My head lies
on the anvil,
my heart
not steel
anymore,
listening to hollow wind,
I'm crying.
LAY me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a crowbar.
Let me pry loose old walls.
Let me lift and loosen old foundations.

Lay me on an anvil, O God.
Beat me and hammer me into a steel spike.
Drive me into the girders that hold a skyscraper together.
Take red-hot rivets and fasten me into the central girders.
Let me be the great nail holding a skyscraper through blue nights into white stars.
Parker Wallis Nov 2011
The hammer and anvil,
My tools of Creation,
Have yet to serve their full potential.
Every day, I wield them.
From the depths of my heart and soul,
I muster the strength to forge.
The strength is abundant,
But such strength is thunder
Without proper restraint.

The fault is not my loyal tools –
Certainly not –
It is my own.
It is my hands –
My frail, limp hands –
Hands that can hold a gentle rose
Or caress a snow-white cheek.
Strength is unneeded there.
I am safe among the fields,
Comforted by the embrace of the flowers.

Every evening, I took a tulip
And by the stem, plucked it.
O, the beauty!
The beauty I held in my hands!
The same hands of Promethean might
Could too hold a budding flower.

But Master scowled at me.
He punished me for my hands –
My weak, pathetic hands.
“You must be stronger,” he barks,
“Lift the hammer above your head,
And bring it down with might!
Stoke the fire! Keep it burning!
You must be stronger! Keep working!”

My hands would burn, but still I worked;
Master’s words rang in my skull.
And how they would redden and swell!
With every blow, I yearned for the embrace again
As my gears clicked together
And the machine slammed the anvil.

One evening prior, I fled to the fields
And tried to hide from Master.
While among the tulips, I plucked just one,
And the stem broke in two,
Graying and withering.
Now a corpse in my hand –
Hand of iron and lead –
It is without purpose.
I searched for others to place in its stead,
But all wilted in the iron grasp.
ryn Oct 2014
With every set, my anxious heart beats with silver
Each of the beats, counting away the reign of the sun
Before finally taking my shift as guardian of the night sky
In my entirety, pulses of incandescent blood does run

As the sun leaves, I rise and and take my rightful place
I'd find my usual nook on my bed of black
Surrounded by familiar friends scattered all over
A million jewels spilling out of heaven's sack

I'd silently watch the earth, reaching with gentle translucent fingers
Silver searchlights scour the lands, I harvest all in view
But my beams were never meant for others
Do believe that... I've saved them only for you

Amongst the sea of hopefuls, I'd always find yours
Looking up with my reflection branded into those eyes
Let us merge our dreams of mercury and red
Rest in the cradle of my light, as I soothe all your cries

Dear Moongazer, it's been a few nights now
Bound by my predestined orbit, I can't help but turn away
Believe that I am resisting with all that I have in me
Unseen defiance in this futile fight so that longer I'd stay

Several more had passed... I feel the promise of fate encroaching
The crushing weight of universe's anvil bearing down
Tearing a little at a time, leaving me lesser than whole
Now I'm half draped in darkness' gown

As the nights go by, I've long been eaten
I peer from my side as I float a slim silver crescent
The time has arrived, my love, I shall leave you in the company of the stars
They will keep you safe even if they seem indifferent

Fully turned away, I now see only fresh new hearts
They all sing the same but none like you
Still I glow to rekindle their hopes and dreams
But what I long is for this tour to be through

After what seemed like an eternity, I'm coming back round
Looking for your beacon as I shine bright and clear
Let our entities intertwine as the moon and her gazer
I am your lunar love...
                                    *
and I am here...
Inspired by my previous write - "Moongazer"
Waverly Feb 2012
It's hard to come out of a three-day drunk,

4:16 in the morning.
Went outside for a smoke, the world is always silent at these times,

and I couldn't handle the return
of my emotions
there were so huge and strong.

And that anvil
knows every angle
of me.

They fell on me en masse
as I lay on the concrete letting all the blood rush
back to its proper places;
in a bitter state.
Third Eye Candy Jan 2013
[From Fragments,  The Following...]

... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.


... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth.  The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.


... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.


... and that's how the rain gets in.



[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]


What ?
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?

Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;

Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
Khoi-San Oct 2018
Shards of self
Lay scattered in the blood
Of our past
Seasons come and seasons go
Tongue upon steel
Tempered at the alter of the anvil
Into full bloom
Neither satisfied nor solemn
We must make a choice
Grace for the future
From the Masters voice
God is here
Where am I
Choices to make
God loves me
I love you
Enjoy your Sunday
GOD BLESS
ryn May 2015
These eyes have felt
their fair share of tears that burn
Forgive my eyes for they are yet so green
They have seen much but still they do not learn

These lungs have breathed
The air both fresh and acrid
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They only do what they must when all runs turbid

These ears they've heard
Hurtful promises and whispers that have stung
Forgive my ears for they are yet so green
They're know not to ignore the language of forked tongues

These lips have served
The most callous of opinions
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They can't seem to curb pent up notions

These hands have grown tired
From shielding my tear-stricken face
Forgive these hands for they are yet so green
They're still so afraid to welcome the gift of future days

These legs are sore
For they have travelled far
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They knew better than to enter through doors left slightly ajar

This mind is weary
From thinking of a life meant only for dreamers
Forgive my mind for it is yet so green
They know not of the inexistence of greener pastures

This heart... My heart
Pounding each beat that betrays
Beats with an anvil in tow
Forgive it for it is yet so green
It's having more trouble than it cares to show

This face I wear
A weathered mask I'm unready to shed
Forgive it for it is yet so green
There's still life in it...
For there's yet much to be said
Kennedy Taylor Dec 2014
Your mouth is made of metal,
Your kisses taste like gold.
Your lies they strike like bullets,
But I enjoy the holes.

Your mouth is made of metal,
Your truths begin to rust.
Your blade edge may be jagged,
But I love the way it cuts.

Your mouth is made of metal,
Your words feel like steel.
Your smile strikes like a hammer,
But I’ll still be your anvil.
Tom Spencer Jul 2018
white clouds swell up
anvil bloom

a lowering gloom
scuds by

stacatto drops
on the windshield

punctuate  
powerline sway

radio crackle
sparks

sheets of tenor sax
and blunt

gusts of cool
I lower the window

and steer
into the storm


Tom Spencer © 2018
honor Aug 2013
speculation pulls down on the body
the quick switch into panic, akin to the comedic drop of an anvil
when you realise that things aren't as simple as they seemed
it's amazing that you could even be shocked

but when has anything ever been simple?
what else is life to you but a riddle?
the questions which rush through your brain
sweeping you off your feet and onto the gravel

curiosity lunges at you, hungry and ready to feed
to claim another life, to rip each "what if?" out from your curled fists
you should have already known the murders it is capable of
but you would never take the proverb literally, would you

"things are the way they are, because they are"
do not lie back in the mud and be defeated
pull the mystery apart, unravel the string with your mighty claws
seize the day and avenge the cat
curiosity can **** a cat but maybe you'll survive
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2019
“I am a warrior, so that my son may be a merchant, so that his son may be a poet.”

John Quincy Adams, 6th President of the United States
<>
a bad weakness, mine, mess with the perfect of others,
unsure what to add that will addictive illuminate further,
but as homage, a tribute, a salute
got to
got too,
no middle class delayed gratification for me, none, whatsoever,
read the words and my own hands choke me
as if to pull out, to free
the upsurging words in my chest-forming,
to uplift me up, from the floor where I am roiling in
wonderful wonderment at a prophecy come true

my recent family history,
about 400 years worth, got it written down someplace,
escapees from a Spanish Inquisition,
a Roman one before that,
meandering Jews who found a respite, a small welcome
in a small village in Germany

(the irony does not go unnoticed)

from villager to merchant, from tiny town to big city folk,
we went, warriors if any, kept secret, best unheard,
attract no attention, but do what survival doesn’t
always politely request

here I am child of the proverbial wandering jew,
fancy me a poet with, at best, a very small p,
one of three children, historians, book writers, scholars and even
poet~traders,
and so a President’s words, hammer my cells
upon an anvil for human skins,
the future shape of me foreseen
and I think to myself,
alone and out loud:

This, This!

is what makes America great, 
welcoming the stranger,
even predicting their
possible pathway to a peaceful existence,
giving their descendant’s generations liberty,
liberty to become poets,
free, who can stand upright
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
  The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
  With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
  Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
  His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
  He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
  You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
  With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
  When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
  Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
  And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
  Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
  And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
  He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
  And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
  Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
  How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
  A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
  Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
  Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
  Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
  For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
  Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
  Each burning deed and thought.
Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the
Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got
there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while
Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the
town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the
citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of
the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the
stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King
Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
  With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to
the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every
one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had
beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller
and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians
favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well
in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then,
when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
  “Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the
Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger,
whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or
other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the
matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for
others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has
been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage-
and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then
when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship
and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in
everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who
will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town
councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the
cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing
to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing
about.”
  Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a
servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fifty-two picked oarsmen went
to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they
drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound
the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in
due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a
little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house
of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were
filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young;
and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two
oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent
banquet.
  A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the
muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil,
for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had
robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the
guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him
on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it
with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals
by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he
was so disposed.
  The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were
before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink,
the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more
especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit,
the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that
they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But
Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one
another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the
stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the
evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
  Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head
and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see
that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears
from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a
drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed
Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then
Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No
one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him,
and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said,
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough
now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due
accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers,
and runners.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A
servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the
cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the
chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of
several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus,
Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon,
Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was
also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was
the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons
of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
  The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from
the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all
flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long
way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow
that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then
turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be
the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at
throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who
presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let
us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems
very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of
prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much
lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man,
no matter how strong he is.”
  “You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your
guest and speak to him about it yourself.”
  When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the
crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that you will enter
yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are
skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one
before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all
his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and
feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from
your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship
is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
  Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my
mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through
infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying
your king and people to further me on my return home.”
  Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that
you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight
in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in
ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of
their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be
much of the athlete about you.”
  “For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent
fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in
speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence,
but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he
charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his
hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his
fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. Another may be as
handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you
are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me
exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a
great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and
strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I
am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on
the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite
of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the
quick.”
  So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a
disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the
Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it
back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in
the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of
its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any
mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and
marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she,
“could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead
of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no
Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
  Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on,
so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up
to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or
even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come
on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do
not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but
not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s
own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a
sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game,
especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground
from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards
any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is
the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known
among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the
first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are
taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who
could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy
and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of
those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not
like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus
the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in
fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry
with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I
can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running
is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the
Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea;
my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
  They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir,
we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from
which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as
having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been
made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been
uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you
will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your
chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get
home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all
kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as
wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent
sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we
also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so
now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing,
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers,
minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or
other of you and fetch it for him.”
  On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s
house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the
sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the
dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he
took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in
the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was
delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
  Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and
how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars
made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so
the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very
angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy
brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to
forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that
they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he
went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains
like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the
ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were
they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as
though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of
all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept
no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his
house, burning with love for Venus.
  Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and
was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as
he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he
is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose
speech is barbarous.”
  She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their
rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had
spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but
found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to
them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout
the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and
stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all
the gods.
  “Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live
for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight
that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring
me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and
clean built, whereas I am a *******—but my parents are to blame for
that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the
pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie
there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep
much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me
the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but
not honest.”
  On this the gods gathered to the **
Jabber Alexander Sep 2015
red lights yet, seeing
signs in the green.
are you friend or fiend?
may we both come in peace?
crop circles get dusted off.
all curfews must dissolve.
if our virtue is up to par,
please let us be.
upheld laws
will get disregarded.
cops caught off guard
by gargoyles gawking
at dawn's sweet offspring,
this broad's in a stand still.
villains chill alleys
these foes just can't ****
as the girl cops an anvil
ready to drop her mans
onto a large canvas
full of hurt,
red paint and tequila
as her quills dry up does she
still see city lights as freedom?
curbside dances in the moonlight
earning keeps for a teen son.
"How do we have laws that inhibit a woman's body?"
mark john junor Jun 2013
music echoes across the lot
two different songs shouting at each other
from two different pa speakers
it grates on the mind
vendors make desperate pleas for your pocket
but no buyers come round
they are all lined up waiting
for morning to kick in
like the bottom of the five day old
*** of coffee

flags flowing in stark contrast
to the vivid blue sky
and western shore breeze
the day is a carnival of fools
steady stream of
carefully stepping beach hatters
and sand pickers

nailed to my parking space universe
with my table and odd wares
bent back roasting under the heavy sun
rich with the taste of
yesterdays feast for souls
replete with the texture of tomorrows
bright and vivid blue dream

haggle price till voice harsh
feels odd to your mind
but your loved ones smile
at your antics and embrace you

the music has faded from the lot
as the sun slips into the sea
pulling your leftovers in a cart
you breath your way back to the hole
in the streetlight reflections
and under the eyes of the watchers
and the girls with eyes glittering
hungry souls needing coin
look ma no editor!!! its like running down the street with no clothes shouting "haha hehe look at me im neked!!!" LOL
The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head



The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall.

Of mighty kings of Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away;

The world was fair in Durin's Day.



A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.



There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote,

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built,

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.



Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang

And at the gates the trumpets rang.



The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
SE Reimer Oct 2013
wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm

with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him are scattered
and unframed verses his walls adorn

a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
his home already filled to overflowing
one wonders if there is room for more

he’s unable to sell them, try as he might
though each skillfully crafted is a work of art 
still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink as he pours out his heart 

down at the market where men sell their wares
poems fetch only a penny a line
he’s chosen a craft that a pittance pays
he’ll have to settle for a book of rhymes

his inkwell low he walks down to the store
where he refills his stock of whiskey and wine
exchanging his farthings for bread and butter 
and a chance at a glance of a fair lass fine

she, his inspiration, and fuel to his fire
yet she’ll ne'er know, she’s his psalm to be sung
so on marches time and their verse can't be written 
for his words flow on page, just not from his tongue

so the wax keeps running from his candle dim
the ink from this wordsmith continues to flow 
his daydreams he hammers over his anvil
but prose they might have written we’ll never know
~

post script.

this one didn't start off as a lost-love poem.  funny how that developed as i wrote it.  it began more just as a reflection of the art of wordsmithing, and how much it is that we hammer, bend, spin and curve all manner of words to make these things we call poetry.  language... what a gift we have to convey our love, our anger, our disappointment, our expectation to those around us.  a beautiful thing!!!
Poetic T Jan 2018
My attention is hammered into being,
           as the anvil of my motions
                      are moulded into  formation.

Heated in the furnace of
                                       my subconscious.
What once was just white heated noise
       now moulds with each hit of reasoning..

Our thoughts are always being sculpted
               in the milliseconds of there creation.
Some aren't as we wished,
             misshapen syllables are reheated
to verses later hammered into cognitive thoughts.

*"Our perceiving is moulded with wielded
                    blows that form our every sentence,
365

Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door—
Red—is the Fire’s common tint—
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame’s conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil’s even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs—within—
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge—
A Deco Jan 2014
secret moments we never seem to get rid of and all i want to do is share them with you
life has a way with putting our lives onto an anvil made of ice cold steel hearts
our blood warming thick red laughter pumping threw swear veins
while waste washes away a rough cut ceder skeleton
chopped down form a forest rich in our hometown homegrown roots
but more then the vegetable that the night made you
i don't think that you'd want me calling you that but you aren't going to make a scene
like the last time the director yelled cut on your forearm stages

secret moments leave clues
like then second lieutenant mustard
outside the parlor
inside our heart
those secret moments
leave me with you

stripped naked on camera but not making skin flick to cover our tracks and the conception
of a child doomed to greatness by the hand of loneliness
his father was praised with accolades of war and baptized by blood
he was 33 and had more threesomes than the numbers really showed
danced with the lord while looking at the devil


secret moments leave clues
like then captain mustard
outside the ball room
inside our head
those secret moments
leave me with you

lemon juice seemed to be what life was giving out that day and we were wide awake
eyes wide open to take every second in
ears wide shut to block a white noise screaming devil truth
noise sneezing closed high in the air because its all we've ever known
forget about feeling anything white snow in our pocket habits made sure we were numb
our waking dreams were better than the reality we imagined

secret moments leave clues
like then colonel mustard
outside the dinning room
inside our soul
those secret moments
leave me with you

from me i gave you
life has what it does
we speak in increasingly vague terms  
if you can call it that
good leaves its relativity perspective open to interpretation
forever 22 years turning in our chests ripping at hallow
we are empty
we are filled with one another
overflowing with the finger paints we tend to touch with

lets dance in the moonlight and have these moments to everyone else
what we are keeping is mostly from ourselves anyway
hiding from incoming wisdom teeth
lets hope our hearts aren't impacted
because the moments we share aren't a secret
we love one another
not because we are humans but because
our voices cut thorough the static
to come in clear
saying simple words with a simple meaning
i love you
The Bard Feb 2016
With fire and hammer
Anvil and steel
In my craft I do not stammer
With weapons I do not feel.

With my blade I feel protected
Protected from the cruelty of life
I don't know what you suspected
I didn't intend to cause strife
Shaded Lamp Nov 2015
Dizzy daydream
Falling to the sky
Fizzing fingertips
It's too late to cry

Muscle spasms
Invisible straight-jacket
Anvil on my breast
Brokkr strikes the red hot gibbet

Sparks fly
Into the sooty black
Anvil cracks
There's no turning back

Dimming embers
Just a feeble glow
Black soot freezes
Falls as bright white snow
Dae Staebell Jan 2016
As a poet
I seek to give words
A form of sorts
I feel as though I am a blacksmith
The hammer a pen
The paper my anvil
Words the steel
Viciously shapeless at first
Once refined, beautifully curved
Tempered with my emotion
To form a crafted sword
Not meant to pierce flesh
But instead the soul
Surface can be of gilded gold
Ornate and pretty
A blade meant to dazzle and woo
I say this resolutely, absolutely
Because in the breath of a sentence
One can live **forever
A poem about the impact poetry can can have and what better way to describe than to say you're a craftsman of sorts

— The End —