Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Poetry Pottery


Purring like a cat, the heat pipes
gurgle on-and-off rhythm, a
breathing rhythm overhead
rumbling like a living pet
and music's on in the studio
while clay shavings peel away beneath
my trimming tool like
skin off an apple, and
the bottom of a cereal bowl
is shaped and smoothed.
Phone rings and I don't answer.
Rather hear the purring
of the pipes, my potter's wheel turning,
these blues thumping and wailing
than break it with nowhere chatter.
I love this dusty vault
this cluttered order
these spinning bowls one then
another. Conversations
between the senses.

(copyright Mimi Stadler 2012)

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