Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SMITHY OF GOD, by CLEMENT WOOD Poet's Biography First Line: I am newark, forger of men Last Line: I am newark, forger of men. Subject(s): Newark, New Jersey | ||||||||
I (A bold, masculine chant.) I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men -- Here at a smithy God wrought, and flung Earthward, down to this rolling shore, God's mighty hammer I have swung, With crushing blows that thunder and roar, And delicate taps, whose echoes have rung Softly to heaven and back again; Here I labor, forging men. Out of my smithy's smouldering hole, As I forge a body and mould a soul, The jangling clangors ripplewise roll. (The voice suggests the noises of the city.) Clang, as a hundred thousand feet Tap-tap-tap down the morning street, And into the mills and factories pour, Like a narrowed river's breathing roar. Clang, as two thousand whistles scream Their seven-in-the-morning's burst of steam, Brass-throated Sirens, calling folk To the perilous breakers of din and smoke. Clang, as ten thousand vast machines Pound and pound, in their pulsed routines, Throbbing and stunning, with deafening beat, The tiny humans lost at their feet. Clang, and the whistle and whirr of trains, Rattle of ships unleased of their chains, Fire-gongs, horse-trucks' jolts and jars, Traffic-calls, milk-carts, droning cars . . . (A softer strain.) Clang, and a softer shiver of noise As school-bells summon the girls and boys; And a mellower tone, as the churches ring A people's reverent worshipping. (Still more softly and drowsily, the last line whispered.) Clang, and clang, and clang, and clang, Till a hundred thousand tired feet Drag-drag-drag down the evening street, And gleaming the myriad street-lights hang; The far night-noises dwindle and hush, The city quiets its homing rush; The stars glow forth with a silent sweep, As hammer and hammered drowse asleep . . . Softly I sing to heaven again, I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men. II (Antichorus, with restrained bitterness, and notes of wailing and sorrow.) You are Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men. . . . You take God's children, and forge a race Unhuman, exhibiting hardly a trace Of Him and His loveliness in their face . . . Counterfeiting His gold with brass, Blanching the roses, scorching the grass, Filling with hatred and greed the whole, Shrivelling the body, withering the soul. What have you done with the lift of youth, As they bend in the mill, and bend in the mill. Where have you hidden beauty and truth, As they bend in the mill? Where is the spirit seeking the sky, As they stumble and fall, stumble and fall? What is life, if the spirit die, As they stumble and fall? (With bitter resignation.) Clang, and the strokes of your hammer grind Body and spirit, courage and mind; Smith of the devil, well may you be Proud of your ghastly forgery; Dare you to speak to heaven again, Newark, Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men? III (Beginning quietly, gathering certainty.) I am Newark, forger of men, Forger of men, forger of men. Well I know that the metal must glow With a scorching, searing heat; Well I know that blood must flow, And floods of sweat, and rivers of woe; That underneath the beat Of the hammer, the metal will writhe and toss; That there will be much and much of loss That has to be sacrificed, Before I can forge body and soul That can stand erect and perfect and whole In the sight of Christ. (Sadly and somberly.) My hammer is numb to sorrows and aches, My hammer is blind to the ruin it makes, My hammer is deaf to shriek and cry That ring till they startle water and sky. And sometimes with me the vision dims At the sight of bent backs and writhing limbs; And sometimes I blindly err, and mistake The perfect glory I must make. (Rising to a song of exultant triumph.) But still I labor and bend and toil, Shaping anew the stuff I spoil; And out of the smothering din and grime I forge a city for all time: A city beautiful and clean, With wide sweet avenues of green, With gracious homes and houses of trade, Where souls as well as things are made. I forge a people fit to dwell Unscathed in the hottest heart of hell, And fit to shine, erect and straight, When we shall see His kingdom come On earth, over all of Christendom, -- And I stand up, shining and great, Lord of an unforeseen estate. Then I will cry, and clearly then, I am Newark, forger of men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NEWARK: 1666 by ELIZABETH SEWELL HILL NEWARK: 1766 by ELIZABETH SEWELL HILL THE CITY OF HERITAGE by ANNA BLAKE MEZQUIDA PORT NEWARK TERMINAL by EDWARD STEVENS RANKIN NEWARK'S MORNING SONG by LEONARD HARMON ROBBINS THE BALLAD OF SETH BOYDEN'S GIFT by ALICE READE ROUSE NEWARK AND PHILIP KEARNY by CLINTON SCOLLARD |
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