Coloma in D Minor

Heavy is the hammer he hefts overhead

to bring crashing down 

pinning ore between the weight of steel

and unforgiving bulk of iron

he strikes

strikes again, and again

sweat like mineral beads glisten from skin

dark birds wheel overhead breaking the sun into long shadows

again he strikes, again

the fire a pool at his feet

the mortgage a lake in his mailbox

the holes chewed in his shoe by the grind of the ground

he strikes again,

cools the ore in a bucket of water

with long tongs designed to turn the weight

the river, he thinks, always flows away

back into flame

dark birds descend to free the sun from it's bars

he strikes again

and again

turning, twisting, moving the red bulk

extending it, laying it flat

he strikes

it glows in growing rows

he strikes

stretching its lines fit like a slim assassin

he strikes

he strikes

(dark birds alight on a potter's field)

into the bucket with a protracted hiss

then laid aside for later

he shrugs off the burden of his leather apron

and heads back home

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

Brilliant! How to hear the seemingly musical sounds of hard, hot work, how to listen to the sound of historically traditional work. Over in the UK we had a series of programmes about such work: not a note of true music but, the sound of clangs, siss of hot metal in cold water, glass being blown, the dull thud of a practised hand placing thatch on roofs, etc'. Sounded near magical, extraordinarily unique. Your poem creates the same kind of music plus, leaves such unusual memories behind, '. a protracted hiss - then laid aside for later - he shrugs off the burden of his leather apron - and heads back home.'

[JR]

Thanks! I'm glad that you found the music in it!

[emmajoygreen]

It's ages old music - near commonplace, done by whistling skilled craftsmen. Thinking of age old buildings that took years to build and still stand hundreds of years later. Their music echo the vaults of heaven!