The Anvil Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

On the knee-high block of 'bod-ark'
Stands the Anvil, cold and dark
Railroad spikes hold it secure
Ensuring every abuse it will endure.

Forged in metal works, long silented.
The roaring furnaces flames quenched,
Workers, resting in their graves,
The Anvil remains a testament to their ways.

When Wesley had young guest
They sooner or later became pest,
No matter what their age it seems
They had to test the anvil's rings.

Wesley would draw out from under his bed
His hammer with the eight-pound head.
It would be passed around.
For them to see how heavy was eight pound(s) .

The hammer head, like the anvil
Was forged in Vulcan's temple.
Suspended on a cubit length
Oaken handle, worn smooth.

Impossible to raise as intended,
By choking up on the head, in air's suspended.
Then striking the Anvil with a blow
Produced no music notes that we know.

To Wesley, is passed the sledge
He, the acknowledged ruler of the forge.
With what looked to be
A great deal of difficulty,
He raised the eight pounds of iron
A foot or so above the anvil's horn,
And in anticipation of the blow
Silence on all would be bestow(ed) .

Then, the hammer, suspended,
Would move on the path, intended.
Dropping slowly downward
In an arc, of the forearm toward
The anvil waiting dumb, for the shock,
On the bois d'arc wooden block

Wesley made no apparent effort.
Only guiding the hammer's direction to impart
A first blow
On the horn below.

And strike the anvil it would.
Producing a clear ringing sound
Not unlike a church's bell;
A single clear note, a peal.
That came forth as directed by
The maestro's baton on the fly.

The hammer rebounded, higher than before
For sure, more music was in store.
Again it would from it's apex come slowly down,
Then striking the anvil, producing a new sound.
And again it would rebound upward.
Over and over, each stroke, a new reward.
With every rise and falling movement
As a musician tuning his instrument.

Then, Wesley played on the horn's nose,
Called by him in Blacksmith prose.
To the back of the anvil's flattened plate
Then by where the wedging holes were shaped
Onto the sides, and in the center
Each produced a note of different tenor.
The anvils web, and even on the base
No part of the iron escaped his embrace.

His movements – effortless
As he played his solo - anvil chorus.
Unlike Gene Kruppa on the drums.
There was no forced movements,
No rush to combine sound(s) .
Strokes dependent on th' hammer's rebound
Giving a clear sound only capable
Of being produced by his hammer and anvil 'table.'

And then almost as he had begun,
The hammer with each strike would lose momemtum.
Until on the last note, it stopped in mid-air.
And was momentarily suspended there.
Then Wesley would pass
The hammer to a waiting accompanist
Who would try to reproduce the sounds
That came from strikes and rebounds.

Finally when all were through,
The smaller children had their due.
They would approach the anvil
And seeing another use of this iron devil.
Such a mysterious device,
Would be mounted in a trice,
Facing the horn, nose or called some other name
It became a magic steed of mystic fame.
Capable of carrying them far away
From the dirt roads and red clay,
Summer heat and biting bugs,
Alcohol and other drugs.

Sometimes two or even three
Would take their place and flee.
With arms waving and legs pumping
The air filled with their shouting.
Then they would return to where they began
Wesley's place and the old man.

Then as in times past, all would go
And sit on the porch steps and 'flo'
Waiting for Wesley to begin a story
Of how it was in times past, in his glory.
When he and his dogs hunted muskrats,
Bears and tigers (some called them bobcats) ,
Caught alligator gar that were bigger than a man
And barrels of catfish for the frying pan.

Today the anvil stands silent as never before
Wesley's gone. There will be no stories. Never more.
Neighbors will take the anvil away
To another resting place to stay
And it never more will ring and resound
To Wesley and the children's joyous sound(s) .