Menu

Poetry

What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?
                            —Rubaiyat

The kick wheel turns against
the spondees of her feet
clop-clop—upon the floor:
amorphous clay shines
like a seal’s skin. We are
uncarved blocks, says the Tao.
Hum-hum, says the wheel.
And I am Yahweh at dust,
she says, her hands tucked
and carving out the belly
of a pot. Process not
progress, is there love
in this? The god I wish
existed, she says, does not
exist. Washing off the gray
that cakes her skin makes touch
almost new again, almost
like today…. It is finished,
says the crackle glaze.
I am a little world made
uncunningly, says the pot,
I am clay fashioned by clay.
Outside, the azure sky
like a knife through November.
Says the kiln, in its red
meditation: Amen.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Pin It on Pinterest