Friday, April 12, 2013

Sword Verses

Petr Florianek ( recently made an incredible object. I am in awe of this weapon and this man's craftsmanship. I wrote a poem to go along with it as part of our ongoing collaboration. I will stop writing and let the sword and its verses speak for themselves.

The smokey smith
struck the anvil,
of Regin's race,
red-faced, puffing.
And like to him
he laboured hard
to birth a blade
of bitter steel.

He forced its form,
folding, pounding,
until it took
taper and edge.
It gained pattern,
grained as fir-wood
or like a lake
lapping at stones.

Such was his skill
silver decked it
pommel and guard,
a princely sword.
Though grim-purposed,
its greatness laid
in metal-lore
its maker learned.

For none could know,
now or ever,
the subtle workings
of steel and heat
without effort
eagerly spent;
few masterworks
were made through sloth.

And who would hope
to hold to life
when faced with death
dealt by their foe
without a sword
the smith perfected
to offer him 
an open head.

Copyright © 2013 Myles Mulkey
Images courtesy of Petr Florianek (

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