Poetry | The Poet's Forge
The Poet’s Forge
©2019 Vernon Miles Kerr, vernonmileskerr.com
When I think of a forge, I first think of old, bronze Vulcan, at the top of his tower, hammer raised, on a hill overlooking Birmingham, Alabama, my place of nativity. Having first seen him when I was five years old it left a distinct impression. Like a poem, this work of monumental sculpture implied much more than the mere outward form of the work — even for a near-infant. In my mind I sensed the rivulets of perspiration on his grimy up-stretched arm and anticipated the crashing clang of the hammer blow. That clang still echoed in my mind one morning, when I stood at the base of Vulcan’s tower 60 years later.
Beyond the metaphor of sculpture-as-poem, there is that parallel of the poetic process as smithery — a poem being heated, pounded, annealed, quenched, hammered more, until perfect — dross removed, complete. Here is a vignette into that forging process. My original version of the poem “Can a Crocus Bloom” and the latest version, hot from the forge:
Can a Crocus Bloom … (copied to WordPress 11/2/2018)
© 2018 Vernon Miles Kerr
Can a crocus bloom in desert’s searing sand;
Or Altruism spring from our primate-surly band?
Could Love, that _agape _of old, that outward-flowing care
For others, arise from merely wishing it so?
Or was it a gift, bestowed by the loving hands,
Of some gardener, long ago;
A seed, planted in unlikely soil,
So that when it flourished
It would confound–
And astonish?
Can a Crocus Bloom … (re-worked 6/26/19)
© 2019 Vernon Miles Kerr
Can a crocus bloom in desert’s searing sand;
Or Altruism spring from our primate-surly band?
Could Love — _Agape _of old — that outward-flowing
Care, arise from merely wishing so?
Or was it a gift, bestowed by loving hands,
Of some hopeful gardener many eons ago;
An unlikely seed, planted in unlikely soil,
So that when it flourished
It would confound–
And astonish?
Can a Crocus Bloom … (rewritten 3/2020, rendered in a rough iambic pentameter)
© 2020 VERNON MILES KERR
Can a crocus bloom in desert’s searing sand;
Or altruism sprout from our surly, primate-band?
Could love, the agápe of old, that out-flowing care,
That emollient, applied without thought of recompense,
Spring to life as an empty consequence
Of colliding molecules and only, happenstance?
Or was it—artfully and lovingly applied, mid-planting-season
By a hopeful gardener, long ago, for a reason:
A seed inserted in stony and unlikely ground
So that when it flourished, perhaps It would astonish—and confound?
Which version do you prefer? Please comment below. VMK