Best Earthenware Poems
The battle between body and spirit
Housed as I am,
in this earthenware vessel
I witness,
the raging between body and spirit.
My mood- sullen and morose,
a telling sign-
a flashing indicator-
pointing to a weakness in my will,
a slow debilitating decline in my convictions-
indicating a buttressing of my resolve-
is urgently needed.
This paroxysm has been a body blow,
and my spirit is reeling.
I am cloistered, incarcerated now these three years,
having served a portion of my sentence.
What is my crime?
These four walls,
such contemptible, wretched creatures-
mock me, taunt me, deride me
as weak and worthless;
but I know better!
I am shackled to the two evil twins-
misery and myalgia-
myrmidons- secret agents of the devil
serving at his pleasure.
Hell-bent they are on a wicked crusade
raping and pillaging the golden storehouses
of my treasured faith and hope.
Sacred vaults protect my integrity,
my zeal is still intact.
As I wrestle with my afflictions
I throw tantrums-like a feral beast
charging towards the drawn sword.
However, I succumb to the inevitable.
I sense the folly of the fight and submit,
although-unwillingly to this intransigent,
auto-immune disease.
How do you fight an enemy who is
entrenched in your marrow?
This enemy is coercing me on this death march
and it is unrelenting in it's insistence.
The gates of Sheol* beckon to me to enter,
I resist the clarion call, although the gravity
draws me ever closer to my sealed fate.
I see visions of paradise, here on earth,
where pain is no more,
and all suffering is a distant memory
until eternity erases it from my mind.
Unfortunately, for me,
looks like I'll be taking the subway,
instead of the train to paradise.
December 17,2018
For Misery contest Edward Ibeh
*Sheol Hebrew for the grave.
Not hell as a burning place of torment
as is commonly taught and believed.
Categories:
earthenware, evil, faith, health, hope,
Form:
Free verse
She cooks fish and rice,
her unfolded hips
pushing all into place.
Oils, and aromas,
train buds to lap at shadows.
The marl of her hands
turns bowls of smoke
into lemon and butter.
I won’t get to eat the spiced Mackerel,
but I imagine my scaly head laid
in a tabby cat’s saucer.
I dream of small-boned piquant desires,
the lick of her fingers,
the coral curl of her tongue
as If she were a cat and I a fish in a dish.
She wears dark clothes, a peasant garb,
black skirts below her knees,
a lace shawl when she goes to church.
She is Greek, a Turk
an Albanian. She is an Etruscan vineyard
for orphans. A mother to a lover.
Her gourd is full and spilling.
In her hair black horses leap,
a few stout gray mares
amidst the mane.
Tides turn and swirl
through turtle-shell combs.
She’s not a disciple of pretty.
She is earthenware to hold my hungers.
These words are just terracotta shards.
What she is, is an alcove for halvah.
Apart from Holy Days,
she works at a grocery store.
Where she bakes grape-filled suns,
and moon-glazed pastries
for those in need of the olive yield
of her light.
Categories:
earthenware, poems, poetry,
Form:
Blank verse
I was born in a muddy time
created to be a field of broken bricks.
Years wove their weeds.
There was hope,
enclaves of suburban heavens
old men in grim pubs spoke of.
You might think
that I pulled myself together,
dug my boots out
of that land of bitter muck.
Not I,
I killed the weeds only,
carried still, the rubble and smut
inside my belly for decades
only to give birth to an inner life,
small green shoots I then replanted
in earthenware pots,
tokens left on the bare platforms
of railroad stations
Categories:
earthenware, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Like a goat
watching her kid
boil in her milk,
My how Sister Job's heart
must have ripped.
Clasping her breast
and beating her head
when she discovered
her children were dead.
Then searching for shelter-
some place to hide to mourn-
somewhere to cry
And finding only relics
of what her children had left
from the time they roamed
free - alive - in good health.
Turning to her lord
needing his hand.
Finding him a boil
squatting in ashy sand.
Turning to her priest
needing a prayer.
Only to watch him
scrape off his skin
with shattered earthenware.
Thinking it was God
who murdered her babes.
Yet Job remained faithful.
"My Man is Crazed!"
Angry enough to become Satan's tool.
"Curse God and die!"
There was nothing else to lose-
having no words to say
after being reproved.
She must have walked with
head low, for her man's
breath she could stand no more.
But, what did she have left
to lose since they
were her children too.
It had been strife in his flesh
oh poor man Job
when his bitter wife
could stand him no more.
Being once alone under
hardened stares.
Knowing she'd said curse God
and be dead.
But his love was long-suffering
and could never fail.
A blameless and upright
servant of God.
His love was long-suffering
and could never die.
So when the time came
on behalf of his wife
Job prayed...
and Jah accepted and forgave...
for LOVE understood-
They were her children too.
Categories:
earthenware, bible, children, faith, god,
Form:
Rhyme
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Adire” for our dear mother?
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan”
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware?
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila”
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala”
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds
– Aro:- A local dye
– Adere:- A fabric made with “Aro” it is popular among Yoruba people of western Nigeria,
– Iyan :- A paste for food made from Yam
– Egusi :-A soup made from the melon seed
– Ila :-A gelatinous soup made from Okra
– Amala :-A paste for food made from Yam flower
Categories:
earthenware, adventure, africa, black african
Form:
Didactic
Of Laurius' Rancho San Luis Ore,
a distant place, Don Jose now spoke.
"Margarita now speaks of traveling to Luis Ore tomorrow, Don Huerra."
"Is that true? it seems I've arrived at a most auspicious time. Perhaps you'll allow me to give escort? it's been sometime since I've seen your brother and there's matter of some business between us to settle."
"Roads are none too safe, senor, and your offer's much appreciated."
"Then it's agreed! It's my pleasure to be of service to you and your family."
Margarita didn't like idea. She was enduring Don Huerra's presence out of respect for mother and father, but inclusion in entourage unbearable. He was wrinkled , hairless, and older than her own father. She didn't like foreman either. He coudn't be a good man because he'd brought a gun into the church.Gun was in a black holster strapped to his left side; many bullets filled places in belt around his waist. Gun was an evil sight, something only a very bad man would think of bringing into the church.
"My children," Father Saez spoke again to the assembly. "Brother Dominque's prepared cheese and milk. Because there's so many of us, please suffer inconvenience of using earthenware cups. These cups have been made by indians and serve us vey well. They're no different from any used in your homes. If they don't please you, I'm sorry. They'll all we have. Then too, storm's lessening and I think it'll be possible for you to leave soon."
"I don't drink from 'peon' cups, Jose."
Don Hernandez considered wife; he stroked white goatee in mild agitation.
Categories:
earthenware, spanish,
Form:
Free verse
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Àdìre?” for our dear mother?(1)
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan” (2)
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware? (3)
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila” (4)
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala” (5)
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds.
Aro is the source of the indigo-dye which is used to create Àdìre? cloth.
Iyan: A paste for food made from Yam.
Egusi: A soup made from the melon seed.
Ila: A gelatinous soup made from Okra.
Amala: A paste for food made from Yam flower.
Categories:
earthenware, africa, beauty, culture, eulogy,
Form:
Free verse
Train travel
Since I was a small child,
trains have fascinated me,
Some memorable journeys,
still put smile on face in glee.
Recalling of a train travel,
as it ran swiftly on the rails,
Trees ran opposite to us,
fields walked away in trails.
Counting of platforms,
that intervened till the destination,
Bridges and tunnels it crossed,
we screamed, what a grace!
New friends and sharing,
playing cards singing songs
Reading novels, what next,
sleepers extended beyond,
Calls of vendors at platform,
snacks and tea in earthenware,
Everyone wanting it first,
when thrill was more than thirst,
Looking out of the window,
the hair stuffed with coal,
The whistling sound,
the green signal as of reach,
Wish to travel more on rails,
and change tracks often as it did,
Satiate zeal of adventure,
steaming, beaming on train!
Written August 4th, 2015
For contest "Trains and fantasy" by Mystic rose
Categories:
earthenware, adventure, travel,
Form:
Verse
You are not,
The machete that mauls the mound
That sends the ants scampering from the hill,
Preys to the threading feet and the hungered hens
You are not!
The gunpowder that blasts the barn
Heralding the angry bleats,
And inviting the cock-made complaints
No, you are not!
The arrow that pierces the air
Erasing the lines of the birds
Chasing the dark clouds into the sun
You are not
What they wash into your pores
What they sing into your being
What they carve into your heart
You are not
Apart from the tears that tear
Detached from the broken earthenware
For you are human too.
Categories:
earthenware, black african american, conflict,
Form:
Imagism
Truculent trucks advert young minds; raging down roads breeding new gods as pompous, glitter covered idols carved from primordial blades of fear. Meanwhile pious pieces of magnesium stone get chiseled out of focus, branded by labels of complex empirical realities, numerically based shrines too impenetrable to worship. Help! Is the cry of objective cynics still rumbling in earthenware, readily retracing faint footsteps of Diogenes. Jumping in a wormhole of subjective garments to escape an ill-fitting, elementary pipe dream of unified ideals, gargled then spat from archetypal lips. Blowing away the dandelion fluff to catch a glimpse of act 1, scene 1; unrevised. Before curtains close the gap, leaving a thinning tightrope walk between me and we. Strutting back inside homes where a novelty Christ hangs on drywall masking punched holes of pain, wagging fingers pointing to his prescribed solvent, waiting for tomorrow to unlock today’s faith. When will they point at the mirror wading in dark nooks of conscience’s blurry frame? For he who searches, will seldom find peace beyond arms reach.
Categories:
earthenware, deep, faith, introspection, jesus,
Form:
Free verse
for Eric Mottram: 1924-1995 (not because of any debt, felt or incurred)*
one stroke a point
leftstroke bent
hooked
two a cover man
man enter eight borders to cover ice
table receptacle
knife strength
wrap spoon basket
box ten to divine
seal cliff private
also mouth enclosure
earth
scholar follow
walk evening
great woman child
roof inch small
lame crooked corpse
sprout mountain stream
work self
napkin shield
tiny shelter
move on
join hands
a dart a bow
pig’s head feathery
to pace heart spear door
hand branch
tap writings
measure axe square not sun
speak
moon wood owe
stop evil kill
do not compare hair family air water
fire
claws father
change a frame a strip
tooth
ox
dog
dark jade
melon
tile
sweet produce
use field
bolt of cloth
sick back to back
white skin dish
eye lance arrow stone
spirit to track grain cave
erect bamboo rice silk earthenware net
sheep feathers old
plough ear
brush flesh officer from self reach
a mortar tongue opposed boat a limit
colour grass tiger
insect blood do clothes cover
see horn
words
valley
platter
pig
reptile shell red
walk
foot body
cart bitter time
stop & go
city new wine separate village
metal long gate plenty
reach to a bird rain
azure false face
rawhide leather leek
sound heading wind
fly eat head fragrance
horse bone high
long hair fight wine cauldron ghost
fish bird
salt deer
wheat
hemp
yellow millet
black embroidery toad
tripod
drum rodent nose
even teeth drag on tortoise flute
* Eric N.W. Mottram, an outstanding and prolific poet, held the Chair of English and American Literature at King's College, University of London.
[This poem was accepted for publication in Radical Poetics (London).]
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan, 22-23 November 1995 (from the collection: longhand notes (a binding of poems), 1999.
Categories:
earthenware, fantasy, hair, wine, ,
Form:
Imagism
The nucleus of a pin cushion is akin to the internal mechanisms of a sausage. A big massive drama but don't tell Dalai Lamar and the turtle doves will sing and swing in the breeze. A damsel in distress is a fruit pie filling times ten. Or perhaps twenty? But never pickle a grape drop from a left handed swing. Pin pom pom poppy head exploding erosive calamities. Haha eat a stew of dust and concrete with petrol fumes in a finest case. In a tunnel. Chop chop chip and a choooo choooo chooo but no luggage. Baggage is a drink driving drapery. And how cool is a Gatorade and how interesting the scatter of seeds grabbing a garter in an elevated garden in a bypass crawl. Xxxxx now eat. Pardon no patron. And mind no mind levels. It is to integrate to separate a chord from an elbow and fuel in a soup travels great distances in a leavened bowl. But bit no bite and break no bustier. In a negligee perform aerobatic circumferences across lights. Weeee weeeee eeeeeee reeeeee and a radio grinning and smiling from two little eyes of green. Greek goddess getting gods gratefully grating garbage. And an earthenware bowl. Dancing. Flotation. Footstool prancing in a nine acre field and answering a phone at this time is nevertheless seemingly stamping. A stomp thought. Not necessarily reflecting a wide angled view of beautiful sunset lit sceneries. Hahahaha but no hahaha. Now bake a cake ball and clap loudly. Then snore. Wow. A whoooooshing ball. Arriving. Boing boing boing. Great. Fabulous isn't it. Shoot score snorting shaping sharks shapely. And a green epitomized giant dancing around and around and around with 900 bikinis, a dress, a fish tank and a pile of misshapen leaves. So now play a nice game of croquet with eighty-nine frogs who have elevated seats. Haha dusk. Nice. Wow. Xxxxx travestational. Z z z z z
Categories:
earthenware, best friend,
Form:
The curio shop
Where no one will stop,
Lives in its yesterday-dust;
A grandfather’s clock,
An earthenware crock,
And Time’s faintest aroma of must.
The brass button trays,
The bright feather sprays,
Languish like lovers ignored.
The years are for sale,
The bargains all fail,
And Time shuffles by, looking bored.
Categories:
earthenware, time
Form:
Verse
Let me tell you a story about two friends
and all the wisdom this story lends
two men play checkers every day
each hold in their mind memories that stay
both are widowers living their final years
they keep in their pain and all of their tears
in old, crumpled hats and wrinkled overalls
they'll stay and play checkers until the night falls
in between moves they'll speak of their youth
their marriage, their children, their living truth
both are aging vets, both fought in a war
though never speak of it, days of blood and gore
they try to remember the days of their return
then to wrestle with memories etched in that burn
with wrinkled hands and swollen fingers, slightly bent
and years of tobacco that carry a strong scent
strong Cuban coffee is always there
sipped from an old cup of earthenware
the game is unimportant, it's the time they spend
through the last years, before life comes to an end
they play in a park with children around
the noise they hear heals and feels profound
some of the children will watch them play
others only look then run by them away
they're passing time in their timeless realm
so, the years of loneliness will not overwhelm
they walk with a shuffle as they finally leave
as for tomorrow, with each breath, they will cleave
4/15/22
contest Form-N-Narrative...LIFE
sponsor Constance La France
Categories:
earthenware, life,
Form:
Narrative
Upon my face of earthenware
So many feet have laid bare
Maiolica wearing thin-
My colours now growing dim
Revealing my kaolin
Categories:
earthenware, history, places,
Form:
Personification