Irish Thought for April 14....

The Forge

By Seamus Heaney

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

I can appreciate when poetry is well-written, but I can't always understand all that they mean.  But I know one thing, if you revisit and reread the words countless times, one day you will find meaning in a poem...granted often a dictionary in hand helps!  It might not be the intention of the poet, but the wonderful thing about words is, you can always find your own way in the words.  I read poetry and books constantly because you never know where you will find words that are important to you, but it never ceases to be important when you do.  I can not recount all of the times the words of another have changed my life.