Poem #8
The Hammer and the Anvil
It's not the measure of the man
how he acts when times are good
and he should not be held in judgement
if he's weak when times are bad
sometimes you're the hammer
and sometimes you're the anvil
sometimes you're the iron fist
and sometimes you're the sheet of glass
I am growing weary of a world that's weary of me
and I will turn my back on it
like a girl that doesn't suit me
and if she cries I'll bid her
wipe her tears upon my boot heels
for I have made her burn as fire
and I can leave her cold as March
I can leave her winter-stark
and I can stand behind her
when she thought that I was cornered
sometimes you're the hungry guy
and sometimes you're the flapjacks
sometimes you're the switchblade knife
and sometimes you're the doormat
I will spite and thwart a world that thinks it knows my limits
and I will rain my fury down
on everything that's in it
and if it dies I'll walk away
and if it lives I'll walk away
I can always walk away
and find myself a new world.
It's not the measure of the man
how he acts when times are good
and he should not be held in judgement
if he's weak when times are bad
sometimes you're the hammer
and sometimes you're the anvil
sometimes you're the iron fist
and sometimes you're the sheet of glass
I am growing weary of a world that's weary of me
and I will turn my back on it
like a girl that doesn't suit me
and if she cries I'll bid her
wipe her tears upon my boot heels
for I have made her burn as fire
and I can leave her cold as March
I can leave her winter-stark
and I can stand behind her
when she thought that I was cornered
sometimes you're the hungry guy
and sometimes you're the flapjacks
sometimes you're the switchblade knife
and sometimes you're the doormat
I will spite and thwart a world that thinks it knows my limits
and I will rain my fury down
on everything that's in it
and if it dies I'll walk away
and if it lives I'll walk away
I can always walk away
and find myself a new world.
posted by Tom at 9:13 PM
3 Comments:
I wrote this on 12-22-04. I had a rough day at work today (I am training as a control room operator at Liberty Processing, the plant that cleans, stores, and loads the coal from several nearby mines). "They" want you to learn to operate the plant through Trial by Fire. They are impatient. I made some mistakes, as a learner will do. Some, stupid ones. Others, I couldn't help. The maintenance chief said to me, "What kind of education did you get?" Now, some would say that I'm thin-skinned, which I am. Short-fused, also. I say this: I don't get paid enough (a million dollars an hour wouldn't be enough) to be called an idiot. I don't get paid enough to have my years of hard work in college questioned by a tobacky-chewin' Good Ol' Boy. The poem, which was written in one sitting, is saying simply this: If your stupid coal mining culture, along with the microworld in which it exists, doesn't want me, that's fine. I can turn my back on it if I wish because I am free enough to say Fuck the Money and Fuck the world of mining. Now, maybe I won't go, but I am now officially seeking alternative means of employment. The "her" in the poem is merely another way of referring to the ol' coal company. Just like any lover with which I have had a good relationship, I can turn around and leave the profession to whatever its fate might be, if our paths aren't destined to twine on together. You win some, you lose some. You throw some away.
Lots of jobs here in Boston! ;)
Seriously, though, I hope things go better for you, and Merry Christmas!
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