Prompt 26: My Clay (#1260601)

About This Author

My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!

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Apr 12, 2006 at 3:19pm

#1260601

Edited: April 12, 2006 at 7:51pm

Prompt 26: My Clay

by Joy Jingles Bells

My Clay

My kiln is hot;
the pedal under my feet
bounces up and down with ecstasy
as I sit at the potter's wheel
and spin my clay, shaping
what? An urn, a vase, a jar,
an amphora? But no, my container
has to be more.
Not porcelain or fictile,
since I'll fire without
breaking, and I'm still
in the making.

My container
cannot fit to a mold;
it will be handmade,
without a pallet shaped,
nudged, pulled, flattened,
and in patience, tempered.
Never mind the coarse outside;
I fumble more with punching,
pinching, and correcting the inside,
to urge delicacy, smoothness,
and ease; so, the container can
bounce back sturdily after a tumble,
and rock back and forth, in character,
while the world repeats itself
spinning, turning,
churning, spurning
my kneaded clay.