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This poem was part of my 2023 KA&S Triathalon entry. It is written in the Irish Deibide form. This is the same style of poetry as Pangur Ban, both in form and content. I was originally inspired to write it as part of a Blacksmith Bardic Challenge many years ago, to honor my friend Crispin Fletcher. I struggled with the poetics for nearly a decade before I was able to produce this piece. To date, it holds my record for longest time from date of inspiration to date of production (except for Ealdred's Laurel scroll, which is a different problem entirely).
This poem was part of my 2023 KA&S Triathalon entry. It is written in the Irish Deibide form. This is the same style of poetry as Pangur Ban, both in form and content. I was originally inspired to write it as part of a Blacksmith Bardic Challenge many years ago, to honor my friend Crispin Fletcher. I struggled with the poetics for nearly a decade before I was able to produce this piece. To date, it holds my record for longest time from date of inspiration to date of production (except for Ealdred's Laurel scroll, which is a different problem entirely).
Please see the 2023 KA&S entry page for more information on the triathalon entry as a whole. The links to the poetry documentation are there, and also at the bottom of this page.
Please see the 2023 KA&S entry page for more information on the triathalon entry as a whole. The links to the poetry documentation are there, and also at the bottom of this page.
Written in April 2023
Scribe and Smith
Clever craft-folk, he and I
Pen and forge are matched allies
Black iron tools to reach our goal
Mine, gall-ink and his, charcoal
Checking once then twice for sure
Ruler ready, he measures.
"It fits! Yay!" I gleefully preen
Lines with letters like sardines.
Inspired, he feeds his forge fire
Bellows blow, flames climb higher
My own burning questions press
Answers bring light to darkness
Red iron bends with shifting blows
He commands, metal follows.
A quieter smith, I sit
Forging phrases: my habit
Careful strikes create knife's edge
Honing blades with deep knowledge
Honing stanzas, setting free
Meanings made with right trochee
Fixing words, removing scale
Expert eyes see each detail
His hands black from smoke and soot
Mine stained too by my inkpot
Coals cool as he finds his rest
Aching arm gives loud protest.
Three fingers write, eyes are sore
Pen speaks, whole body labors.
A like pair, this scribe and smith,
With rocks and spite, make mischief.
Smelting, shaping, making pure,
Out of naught, something clever.
Source:
Source:
Modeled after Pangur Ban.
Please see my documentation for additional information. The poetics chart is here.
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