Head Bent Over the Wheel - Jan 29 2023

 

Head Bent Over the Wheel

Jan 29 2023

The earthy smell.

The wet clay

turning beneath my fingertips,

slippery

yet with a pleasing sensation of grit.

The dull thump

of the steadily circling wheel.

Throwing a pot

is like being a kid again;

the messiness

of hands in the mud

and spattered clay,

play for the sake of play

not as a means

but for its own sake.

They say this is the stuff

from which Man was made,

formed, like my lopsided pots

by the hands of God.

The celestial potter

in his heavenly studio

churning out copies of us,

head bent over the wheel

contentedly at work.

     . . . Or was it dust?

As in the prayer for the dead

ashes to ashes and dust to dust.

Not that I make anything much.

My ceramic art

is at best aspirational,

ending up

in ugly ashtrays

and bad vases .

The clay, uneven

glaze, patchy,

and after the firing

unpleasant shades

that surprise even me

dripping down the sides.

Which is perfectly fine,

because it's all in the making

not the result.

The uplifting sense

of possibility.

The feeling of wet clay

taking shape in my hands.

And the meditative

turning of the wheel,

feet on the treadle

in an easy regular

back and forth.

At least the ashtrays

   —  unattractive as they are

and thoroughly impractical  —

have character.

As if in creation, we were made

one at a time,

then set aside

in the discard pile.

Unique

imperfect

and kind of homely,

but kept, nevertheless

for sentimental reasons.

And, like that junk drawer full of stuff

worth keeping.

Because who knows

may even be of use some day.

I've been watching a short TV series in which one of the characters is a ceramic artist, and makes beautiful pots. This reminded me of my mother's long ago and ill-fated attempts at pottery: it was a running joke in the family that no matter how they started out, everything eventually turned into an ashtray.     . . .And none of us even smoked! The poem began with these two thoughts in mind, and then found its way.