Best Pottery Poems
A poem sleeps in my body in an upright state,
Among the heavy traffic, I lay bare my desire
Comes unto me in the broad way of my heart
Search in her body similes, title or metaphor.
I breathe in her mouth with the words proper
I whisper into ears to hear the echoes of words
That are in my mind to compose the body fair.
And feel sound effect reading it aloud for tunes
Touch your curved lips with overflowing ideas
Deep down in the vault of your soft rosy cave
I feel you and hear it in firmament of heavens
Touch heart that heaves and throbs like dove
Like a potter I lay my hand on waist for rhythm
Balance,proportion,and aesthetic flexible rhyme.
=================================
23-12-13
First Place win
Contest: Portrait of a Poet by Gautami Phookan
Dr. Ram Mehta - ***A Shakespearean Sonnet***
Date 11-6-10
Sixth Place Winner in:
Contest: Create your own form, maybe? by The rambling Poet, Dear heart
STORIES IN POTTERY
Bluebirds above the azure lakes
Burleigh cups - willow pattern trees in gold leaf -
Once with mashed Sichuan oolong,
And on their side plates, shortbread tiffin,
While nephews in white laughed loudly and played tennis on the lawn.
George V Silver Jubilee mug and plate (1910-1935)
Found by slum clearance machines
In a small kitchen overlooking the slipway at Wallsend -
The mug was dropped once and chipped
On the stone floor, toasting the returned Mauretania -
The plate was never used again,
The Mauretania was never used again.
Chipped but uncracked ; dust coated, but loved.
Shapes and pictures that hold more than hot tea.
Saucers deep and smooth, or shallow and scalloped
With painted delicate petals.
With oolong long cooled,
Cups with flared bell-mouths buried
Under crumpled newspaper stuffed
In soapboxes advertising Daz flakes
Early morning in the Pottery Room,
I gather my tools, bits and pieces of
heating coil, broken and brittle.
The kiln still warm from last firing,
but empty now,
I walk in, turning on the switch that
heats the coils as I pass through the arch.
Where are the bad spots?
I await the coils to turn red.
I see a gap, find a piece of broken coil
and push it into the gap with a wood
handled screwdriver.
Another and another
each chunk repairing a break, melding the
coils together, for now.
The kiln is getting hot.
Each break is fixed.
I back out and turn off the unit.
Next firing should be better, all
elements working.
I can focus now on my Raku ware.
Three small vases fired to bisque.
I have marked them with glaze.
One shows signs of having gotten
salt from another's glaze.
At the outside kiln, red hot,
I lower the pots carefully not to
touch one another, setting them gently on the pegs.
This firing is not long.
Once hot, the glaze shining, smooth, I lift them
and drop them carefully into the trash can
filled with dried leaves.
Ignited, the leaves smoke and smolder.
I'll leave them there until the fire goes out.
Once they have cooled,
I can wipe and polish their surface.
Amazed at the red and violet
colors that come out against the matt white smoke,
and the black shiny spots from the salt.
No artist can duplicate these creations,
like archological finds 10's of thousands of years old.
I see the Zen potter
making a pot for Tea Ceremony.
I hear the Zendo chime,
smell the smoke from his firing.
As doves rise with the smoke,
we melt together, bonded by tradition and
ritual, as we polish our pieces like a tile.
Pottery jugs big and small
Flowers in abundance one and all.
Sometimes roses, lillies too,
Daisies white with a yellow hue
Birthdays weddings, anniversaries too
out comes the gug both bright and blue
To house the flowers sent by you.
something in so-called modern
landscaping amuses me no end,
be it in plush mansions, resorts
or some cottages round the bend;
seems that to residents who fancy
themselves as aesthetically cultured,
a well-mown grassy lawn is never
considered artistically manicured
unless there are antique-looking
pots and jars scattered around
which must be slightly cracked
and partly sunken in the ground,
like accidentally unearthed markers
for a mummified queen's jewelry,
but to ordinary plumbers like me,
this is a health-risky, silly mystery;
the pots and jars breed bad skitters
that inject malaria into your artery,
insects don't care if you majored
in archaeology, minored in pottery.
If I had some clay
I would work with it
To create a vase
or make a soap dish
Working with wet clay
Ins easy to work with
Making it into something
To be so proud of
The large items made
on the potter's wheel
It takes time to shape
Making objects right
After twelve hours made
Then into the kilm
Next to be sanded
After that g;lazed
Then painted again
Returned to the kilm
Once more again
Then apply the felt
She stalks the hall of graffiti red,
bare legs and platform shoes,
and she ties her shirt in such a way
as to best accentuate her boobs
her hair's a mess,
smudged makeup dress,
and lipstick sticks on bottle tips,
cause she's she's she's...
drinking in the bathtub,
taking pictures of her body,
glorifying vomit and drugs on the floor,
and her friends gather round
to touch her alabaster skin,
the bastardized salamander
scales of sexual abuse,
made gold,
and highlighted by the hieroglyphic
autograph of cursive,
that's not just a tramp stamp-
but a prize for past and future lovers,
her mark, her brand, her scent
is a black hole, sucking men in,
Venus and her orbit, spins
desire, violence, jelousy;
sex and mud: a recipe for revenge
and power lust- pornstar pottery.
The other night we took a pottery class and I wish I could convey…the excitement we both felt with our hands immersed in clay.
In some ways we felt like kids again…perhaps that’s the appeal…as we began to play in the mud…upon the potter’s wheel.
Sitting on my stool or at the table where I stood I was struck how working with the clay…is a lot like parenthood.
When you first come face-to-face with the clay you feel so unprepared…you have no idea what you’re doing…you’re excited…and you’re scared.
You know you have to do something because deep down you understand…whatever happens to this clay…is totally in your hands.
And so you take a deep breath, perhaps smile at your wife…and then you jump right in…at first trying your best just to hold on as your world begins to spin.
The clay seems to have a mind of its own…it’s not going as you planned…and it’s only when you relax that you feel the clay conforming to your hands.
You do your best to feel your way…you squeeze, you push, you pull, you scrape...and eventually right before your eyes…the clay takes on a shape.
As the clay keeps spinning and spinning…you’re always on your guard…hoping you’re not pulling too softly…or pushing way too hard.
When you’ve done all you can…you stop to look at the creation you’ve just thrown...hoping you’ve created something that can stand up on its own.
And whenever you see what you’ve help make…your smile is as wide as a Cheshire Cat…as you proudly whisper to yourself…”I had a hand in that!”
And you’re proud to see how tall your children have grown on they’re grown…still…every time you see their face…you smile…knowing they wouldn’t have grown so tall…if you hadn’t built their base.
In sanctuary,
Cracked from flows and blows of life,
A piece of raw clay!
Mold me, my Potter;
I surrender to thee now,
Pray bake me finest!
Splintered gold carpets the ground at her naked
feet. Stars spat from skies above crashing
down to carve out craters in the earth, barren.
She crunches memories once perfect between
her toes - the past squelching-squashing
in meadows bogged with rain and night-time tears.
His ashes, once held in an urn, float
now over a field, let out to pasture. The vase
cracked by her own hand, a widowed hand
grieving. It is said she walks under the moon
searching for those broken pieces. Grasping at
grass. Anything to meld his mosaic back together,
her palms the kiln moulding him into a frame,
a skeleton of pottery.
You have the darkest silence
I can’t read your face
I can’t interpret you blink
There is no meaning to your wink
Your smile is warm and cold
You head shakes like a nod
Your yes sounds like a no
I see nothing on your fore
But you have a soul
You get my attention without a call
You make chants of a statuesque dead man
Frozen in the scorching sun
Wordless and sightless
A statue standing in the darkness of silence
She waited as her brain burnt her body to a crisp.
Shaking as time passed, she just won’t relax.
Her heart is in the hands of one’s fist.
He ran far away, until one fateful day
He couldn’t keep living without her.
?They pushed and they shoved,
but never fell out of love.
I suppose no more needing to chase her.
Now the two never part,
just like at the start.
Conjoined and molded together.
A BEAUTY BORN OF THE ‘BURBS
I showed her the steamier and seedier side
A place where the desperate have tried, cried and died
Young Ms. Suburbs took to it’s derelict charm
As we’d stroll downtown with arms tangled in arm
She had never been confronted by the pitiful and the poor before
They never showed up at her mahogany and gold leafed front door
The beggars on Broadway fascinated her
As beauty in the burbs had created her
I led her to a land of underground sorrow
Where beleaguered moles belittle tomorrow
I showed her both the glory and the fear
In a land difficult for a body to bear
The shoddy sidewalks spit out steam
Where the lost ones don’t even dare to dream
Their nights are as dark as their prospects seem
While manic depressives scurry and scream
I showed her the lives which led to death deep underground
The place where subways vomit out the unfortunate found
She was profoundly effected as we strolled down concrete curbs
And it was evident my tour was a life altering trip for Little Miss Burbs
© 2011.….Phreepoetry
i hate to
because
i want to
stay
awake
for to take
you
by the
hand and
shape
your clay
into a vase
you
needn't be
Ming Dynasty
for you
you please
me just being
Colombian
"Oh, I can't wait!
To get in my sweet baby's arms,"
My professor would exclaim
At the end of each day
In pottery class.
She was a tall, beautiful woman;
He was a down to earth fellow,
And his vine was fruitful
With children at home and
In pottery class.
His heart was full of love
And lessons of art and life.
His heart had been changed
Through a boating accident he said
In pottery class.
Jesus saved his soul
And by crushing the stony parts
Made a vessel of glory.
Then he gave me a warning
In pottery class.
He saw my arrogance
And a need for humility and said
I would fall if I did not submit;
But he was hoping for my growth
In pottery class.
He prayed for us each morning
And read to us each Christmas;
He would weep before us.
His faith carried us to Christ
In pottery class.
He showed his affection
To us and his family and did not hide
His adoration for his wife
At any art exhibition or
In pottery class.
He said she was patient,
And I could see all her kindness.
I remember him saying
How good she was to him
In pottery class.
So I want him to know,
If he ever wonders while waiting
In his sweet baby's arm...
That he did what was good and right
In pottery class.
Dedicated to Mr. Benson