Analysis of knife
In Gonyeh’s narrow alleyway,
The deer pass by my father’s knife shop,
Where he kneels before the furnace’s fire
Like a solitary fire worshipper.
The flames dance upon his sweaty brow
And in his eyes fire turns into Abraham's rosery,
The darkness envelops the shop,
As soot clings to the crevices of his hands.
He rises, his white hair glowing in the dim light,
And strokes it gently, his touch turning it black.
The father stands before the molten furnace,
Gazing with a face both fierce and mystical.
With steady hands, he draws forth the steel blade,
Born from the fiery breath of a dragon’s mouth.
And like an alchemist of old, he works his craft,
Transforming this metal into a precious ruby gem,
A treasure born of fire and the master's touch,
A testament to his skill and unwavering will.
The father is a seasoned craftsman,
Breathing in the constant smoke of his lamp in his small cell.
Through the sale of his knives, he has journeyed far
From this cell to the bustling kitchens of the city,
And even further afield, across the wide world.
With the plectrum of his hammers, the father
Brings forth a Sama dance, his skilled hands moving.
Though years have passed, his hammer's pulse
Is now irregular, out of step with the beat.
And on his once-tall stature, time has wrought its changes,
Bending and warping his once-proud frame.
The father's eyes, a garden of roses,
Hold a gentle gaze, one that seeks no harm.
For even as he wields his blade with skill,
He wishes not to stain its mouth with blood.
“May my knife never cut a lamb’s throat,”
The father speaks his truth:
“Nor fall into the hands of city thugs.
May it never slice the hand of a woman
Who's wept for hours, chopping onions.
May my locking knife, with its deer horn handle,
Never be used to hunt down a deer,
In a place where they stand no chance to flee.”
The father stares intently at his blade,
A thousand suns reflecting in his eyes of blue.
And yet, I fear the open maw of the bench grinder,
Its work nothing but noisy, aggressive.
I say to myself:
“If iron shavings should overcome my father’s eyes,
No more stars will twinkle in that deep blue hue.”
The father is like quenched steel,
Cool and calm in the face of fierce flames.
He never burns like a raging furnace,
But fights against the darkness within.
For many years, he has kindled the fire
That lights our home, fueled by this very furnace.
The sound of the sledgehammer falls heavy,
A mighty roar that echoes through the air.
And yet, I cannot help but think,
That the red-hot flesh of the blade on the anvil,
May be a sinner who deserves to be punished.
The father is a descendant of Kaveh,
But unlike his legendary ancestor,
He has no Derafsh Kaviani nor leather apron,
Symbols of resistance against the tyranny of Zahhak,
That brutal king who sought to quash all rebellion.
Instead, the father walks among the deer,
Disturbing the slumber of those who would oppress,
Passing through the venomous coils of snakes,
And journeying toward the castle of the sun.
Scheme | X A B B X B A X X C D E F X X X X G H X X I X B X X X X X X X G X X X X H X E J I F K B L X X K X X D X B D I X X E X L B H C H J X X H |
---|---|
Poetic Form | |
Metre | 011010 011111011 1110101010 10100101 011011101 00111010111 01001001 11110100111 110111100011 01110111011 01010101010 10101110100 1101111011 110100110101 011100111111 01011001010101 010111000101 0100111001001 010101010 10001011110111 10111111101 11110100101010 010100101011 1011110010 11010111110 11111101 110100111101 0111110111110 100101111 0101010110 1010111111 1101111111 1101111111 111101011 010111 1101011101 11101011010 111101010 11101111110 101111101 0011111111 0101010111 010101001111 0111010110110 1110110010 1111 110101101101 11111001111 0101111 101001111 1101101010 110101001 11011110010 1110110111010 011010110 0101110101 01110111 101111011010 110101011110 0101001011 101110010 1111111010 10101001010011 110111111010 0101010101 010010111101 1010100111 010001010101 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 3,135 |
Words | 698 |
Sentences | 26 |
Stanzas | 68 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1, 1 |
Lines Amount | 68 |
Letters per line (avg) | 35 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 35 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 8 |
About this poem
About the work of my father, who was a knife maker. A knife maker who did not like the violent use of knives and made them only as one of the handicrafts of his hometown "Zanjan". Knife making is an authentic art and craft of Iran and the city of Zanjan.
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"knife" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 2 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/172979/knife>.
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