XX

The smith, the poet & the shaman, have roots
in common origin, each one the builder of a world.

Among the Yakut it has been claimed that
smiths & shamans hatch from the same nest.

Fire was the first great gift, etched on forest by storm.
We first found Iron as fallen stars, divine in origin as meteors.

Ironworking gods of legend were cast from heaven,
tempestuous rebels, firing up their forges underground.

The primordial image of the Maker bound in metal bands,
Prometheus on the mountain with a crow.

A carpenter crucified, a Maker manacled, the Bringer of Light
in eternal flames.  We are caught in what we create.

The maker is intuitive, isolated in introspection,
given to rituals of invocation, drinker at the spring.

Mining & smelting were a magic in themselves,
midwifing minerals from the womb of the earth.

The smith was a bridge between heaven & earth,
a trickster shifting shapes in what he wrought.

Serving the Father by courting the Mother, creating
useful tools & utensils in the search for balanced beauty.