There's something of the early dawn,
creation at the point of quickening,
when watching how form rises from amorphous clay,
the way the potter's fingers edge it into life.
If you could gather all the sand grains
from all the many beaches of this world
and match them 1:1 with all the stars,
the sand would run out long before they did.
Those fingers on the Sistine Chapel's ceiling now,
they might have been content
to render genesis
had God been minimalist
And should the potter then strive for the pristine form?
His prototype from God? Would that be it?
Undecorated and unglazed
or seen from far away,
its prelapsarian form conveys
perfection as it might have been.
But glazed, close up, the scene has changed,
and while the colours still would please
the most exacting God - and, being porcelain,
are proof against decay - they and its shape
are merely background now
to vistas of pornography,
of child abuse,
brutality and pain.
Perfection underlies and underlines
the artless marks unveiling blot and smudge.
A true and urgent metaphor for man.
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Very moving poem. Impact exacting.
a true and urgent metaphor ... a fine poem indeed
He is my favourite potter Dave - I love his work and also his courage in being himself. You have captured the spirit of his work well.
How well the pottery and poem match - clever you...
Beautiful work. Wonderful poem and art.
yours is a world of beauty and mind!
Aloha to you
Hi and a warm welcome to you. Good to have your comments. thank you for them.
Much thanks for the comment.
Weaver of Grass
He's definitely my favourite living potter, and I agree about his courage to be himself. Thanks for the compliment.
Good of you to say that. Many thanks.
Thanks a lot. Appreciate it.
Thanks Cloudia. Generous comment.
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