Do you ever lose your temper?
A little piece about the middle road (to use a metaphor the poem does not). Comments and critique, of course are wished for. One thing, I feel it ends rather suddenly, but I didn't have a good conclusion that wasn't just a bash-you-over-the-head-with- interpretation summary. (I had it titled "Word: Smithing," but found that an example of same.) Ideas?
The forge’s fire
at a certain degree
makes metal malleable,
plowshares into swords
and back,
anything is possible
at a perfect temperature.
Too hot a blast
and finest steel
loses temper,
can hold no edge
and knows it,
melts,
a flakey ruin.
Too little heat
and ingot takes no shape,
it will not change
regardless strength
of smith
or irony skill,
it would sooner explode
into shrapnel bits
than make a choice
against its unwarmed will.
Update:Richard: Agreed, molten stuff is amazing. Never seen a proper foundry from the inside though.
Elaine: Huh? You're shooting over my head with that one.
Update 3:Oh, I see.
Ray: Nope, I'm mostly Norwegian and a bit German. We're suck-ups too, though. 
Sorry Ma distracted you before you could parse up my poem, but I'm sure its for the best....
Comments
I'm sorry, I'm not skilled enough to offer the suggestions you asked for. I just got caught up in the content and thoroughly enjoyed! Your writes seem to always make me think of other verses either I or another have written! I wonder if we've led similar lives. I wrote a "blacksmith" poem; however, you may chuckle at the completely different tone I took with mine....
The Art of Blacksmithing
Don't tease with transient warmth,
soft pads of your nimble fingertips are
as blacksmith's skilled iron,
hot,
bending my back
like molten metal into
hungry waiting arch,
my chill-pricked skin
shivers
though white heat ready
for two to be
forge welded
as one.
Strike with your hammer
before
the blast furnace
cools.
Well, I had a rather broad-scoped, in-depth, word-by-word analysis just ready to dictate to my fingers here and THEN I read Ma's response, and my head became instantly evacuated of every thought but one, and it had precious little to do with your poem...I must hurry home now! Buh BYE...
But seriously, marvelous write, and you're absolutely correct about the exact right temperature. I mean, think about it...can you imagine the collateral damage you would cause smackin' a bar on the verge of molten?!? Liquid, soon-to-shrapnel, burning its way into where it should have been shot?!?
And now I just gotta wonder if you're of Irish descent, cuz ya sure seem to have a true penchant for the articulate compliment! "Is it uncouth to throw back one's head in laughter while also kneeling in the presence of superiority?" Tell me that doesn't smack of genetic predisposition!
Write on, mon ami! ^10
(Crikey, Ma - that was a very 'hot' reponse phew)
You kept the metaphor going magnificently (I enjoyed your sneaky little 'joke' - irony skill!)
But, in reality doesn't a blacksmith attempt to reach the highest heat he can in order to forge a perfect blade? (I don't know what I am talking about, in truth)
The ending doesn't seem too abrupt to me....I think because that last line is so good - you end with a flourish.
(Edit - ps I missed responding to your 'river' poem. The visuals in it were great - I could see the tide of helpless people being swept along to a destination/destiny of which they were unaware.)
Well ending it with "don't try this at home" will not make much of a dent in here.
I'm not very fond of this piece although it reminds me of "The Song of the Guns" from Kurt Weill's Johnny Johnson. So you've put me in a good mood. Man I love the Hurt Weill.
Thanks.
You never hear of the black smith much now , I like your poem it has you thinking back
Not that am that old lol ... Thank you for your post
Good write.
To answer your question... yes, all the time and if I lose it, my sister seems to find it and look like the 'put together one' of the family... lol (;
I dig metallurgy...we have a blast furnace here in town, at Griffin Wheel (I think they still smelt...smolt...which is it? I know one is a small fish).
There is no more a hypnotizing sight than molten ore.
A fine look at smithery.
"There are no coincidences..."
@Oakwolf: It's an inside joke, sorry, I couldn't help myself. My heart-smelt apologies...
I do like your poem very much, especially the ironic title.