Lola Ridge

(December 12, 1873- May 19, 1941 / Dublin)

Iron Wine - Poem by Lola Ridge

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The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine,
It is dusky red, like the ebb of poppies,
And purple, like the blood of elderberries.
Surely it is a strong wine - juice distilled of the fierce iron.
I am drunk of its fumes.
I feel its fiery flux
Diffusing, permeating,
Working some strange alchemy…
So that I turn aside from the goodly board,
So that I look askance upon the common cup,
And from the mouths of crucibles
Suck forth the acrid sap.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Poem Edited: Wednesday, February 8, 2012


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