This was one of the first Milosz poems I heard, and quite possibly the one that hooked me. I like the link between childhood and vocation — especially in a time and place where childhood is considered to be far removed from what you ought to do when you grow up
Blacksmith Shop
I liked the bellows operated by rope. A hand or a foot pedal - I don’t remember. But that blowing and blazing of fire! And a piece of iron in the fire, held there by tongs, Red, softened, ready for the anvil, Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe, Thrown in a bucket of water, sizzle, steam And horses hitched to be shod, Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor, Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds, I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this: To glorify things just because they are. “Blacksmith Shop”, from Provinces: Poems 1987-91, by Czeslaw Milosz, translated from the Polish by the author and Leonard Nathan