The Forge

This is a sonnet about the task of "forging" formal poems, like sonnets. It is also an extended metaphor, with the "gray matter" being the brain, the flame being the forger's passion, etc.

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 arms-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 prick 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.
 

Originally published by The Chariton Review