All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

This poem is the source for the title of Heaney’s second published collection, Door Into the Dark. As a kid, Heaney passed a farrier’s forge on the way to and from school.  It’s that simple–he takes a common-enough memory and transforms it via vocabulary, compression, and rhythm.  As Rachel and I were discussing a little while ago, there is a strong connection between Heaney and Roethke.  Each poet elevates the everyday, celebrating both beauty and ugliness. 

Poems about blacksmiths are particularly important to those of us who are obsessed with mythology, of course.  In just about any myth system, smiths are also gods or magicians.   In Irish myth, smiths are the kin of Brigid, the goddess of fire and poetry.  Heaney knows this, of course, and "altar" was chosen with purpose in mind.  His smith is the man behind the curtain, working fire and metal and denying access to curious children and onlookers.  And Heaney, as a poet, is now symbolic brother to the smith.  It’s simple, and it’s wonderful.

Now, I know I spend more time with smiths and farriers than does the average American.  I’ve probably done more assistant-smithing than most people will ever dream of, so perhaps it gives me a better or different appreciation of this particular poem.  I’ve heard one person after another complain that Heaney’s work can be too local, even parochial.  I think that’s nonsense.  Heaney’s works shines because of its specificity, because it is so linked to place and time.  Some poets become  so attached to the concept of writing some cosmic truth that they lose all connection to actual experience.  Heaney never does. 

And for people who complain that local works end up being "hard" because true understanding of them requires some preparation or research.  Well, suck it up.  Poetry is considered the most elevated form of literature because it requires consideration and re-reading.  Laziness and drivel needn’t take over our every word, thought, and action.  Maybe I’m a snob.  Or maybe I am just willing to work to find beauty.

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