Most blacksmiths have Longfellow’s “The Village Blacksmith” quoted at them at least once in their lives, and fragments of it are lodged in my brain. So, when we were asked to re-write a classic piece of literature through a queer lens, I thought I would draw on my experience of the trials and tribulations of being a transgender, neurodivergent, blacksmith – if I weren’t imitating his style, I wouldn’t use so many “bossy rhymes”…!
The Modern Blacksmith
Under the groaning white gum-tree,
Close to the flowing Dart;
The smith rubs both her aching hands,
And tends her wounded heart;
And the muscles of her pudgy arms,
Are as nothing to her art.
Her hair is short, and cropped, and shorn,
Her face is pale and wan;
Her brow is wet with hated sweat,
She earns what little she can,
And scrapes along in mounting debt,
That she owes to him – the man.
Occasionally, from noon till night,
You can hear her forge-fan race;
You can hear her hammer’s frantic knell,
At reckless speed and pace,
Like a demon ringing the devil’s bell,
Lacking style, or charm, or grace.
Nosy wankers from nearby,
Look in at the open door;
They love to interrupt the smith,
Deaf from the fire’s roar,
Scaring the startled shit right out of her,
Sending her hammer to the floor.
Anxious, manic, or ‘out of spoons’,
She groans at each commission;
Like a soldier unprepared to die,
Abandoning each mission,
Six thousand rusting projects lie,
Each night a new addition.
No thanks for thee, you sweaty cow,
For the things that you have wrought!
They say by bearing woe and and weal,
Our fortunes must be sought;
But not by forging iron or steel,
Just as your teachers taught.
Dani O'Shea 