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I witnessed your unraveling
as she tore you to bits.
Eating at your very core until
things seemed irreversible.

I saw how things changed
when I picked you up piece by piece.
You weren't the same but

It was like looking at shattered pottery
put back together, gleaming with gold
at the cracks.
The same, yet new at the same time.
Renewed.

Then I saw how you went back to her
as I scattered to the wind.
Bhill Jun 23
Art is personal and has many forms
Paintings, pottery, and people who perform

Music, Photography, the making of bling
Finding new ways to dance on a string

Poetry, screen writes, and novels are there
Finding new expressions that you'll want to share

What is your flavor, how far do you go
To find your own art form, that shows off your glow?

Brian Hill - 2019 # 153
Just wondering
carbonrain Dec 2018
I can feel your heart ache under your soft, warm skin as I glide my fingers along your gold-mended pottery fractures. Skating on the glaze you've let me peer beneath to reveal your raw materials. We used to use air and clay and water to speak, now we communicate in a wordless language, born of naked otherworldly splendor.  — and  that planet, your body, I long to explore.
Emily Oct 2018
Beautiful form,
Color of cement,
Rough texture,
Heavy weight.

Thin brush,
Melted white wax,
Pattern applied,
10 minute wait.

Wide brush,
Turquoise and white glazes,
Alternating in bands,
Around the tall vase

Sitting on a plank,
Drying in the breeze,
Sunning itself,
Just another in a line-up.

Dark place,
Intense heat,
Wax burns,
Glaze melts and fuses.

Brief glimpse of sun,
Put out in the trash,
Newspapers below ignite,
Lid closed down tight.

Flames suffocate themselves,
Reducing environment,
No longer oxidizing,
Affects the final look.

Carbon floats, turning
What was covered by wax into shiny black,
Adding lines of black to the white glaze,
Covering the vessel with burnt debris.  

Exposed to the sun once more,
Cooled in the breeze,
Rinsed with water,
Scrubbed clean.

Admired by the crowds,
White vase with black cracks,
Copper bands with hints of turquoise,
Interspersed with black vertical leaves.

Each one different,
Results never predictable,
Never to be reproduced,
Variables too complex.

Raku-fired pottery is treasured for its unpredictable color variation, so
why can’t nature’s palette of skin color,
be likewise prized,
instead of despised?
Jayantee Khare Aug 2018

A fine play
of the
clay
soft
and sift
moistened
turns malleable
gathered and made
to spin on a slow wheel
formed with shaping hands
baked at a high temperature
comes out a beautiful craft
and both of 'em are ready
an urn from the pottery
and  the  poetry!!


Another shape poem......trying the analogy between poems and vases
E McNamara Jun 2018
i wish i could fall into
those pots and vessels
and shatter like ceramics
we are pieces of pottery
Shayn Powell Apr 2018
My proudest work comes from water and dirt
Artistry and patience is my quirk
With a bucket and tools my options are endless
Small vessel, medium vessel, large vessel

My soft hands feel with the clay
My steady hands become the clay
Keeping the vessel together and contained
My vessel is a blossom sprouted from water and dirt
This poem was the very 1st that I have ever written. i decided to write about something I love and thats pottery, i hope that you enjoy!
ryn Dec 2017
Of mud and clay,
drawing strength from the sun.

In the heat,
insides harden even if layers begin to peel.

But in the rain,
the shell concedes and starts to run.

All is left,
is a puddle - stagnant and bereft of zeal.
Laurel Leaves Nov 2017
He died today
all I can think about is
when
he and I snuck over the fence
of my parents home
before they bought it
and flicked ash on the back deck
he would move the hair out of his face
grinning
knowing
I was sitting there playing with my cigarette
reminding myself
over and over again
that I had a boyfriend
we used to lay in the fields
behind the school buses
while he detailed
the home he would one day own
"It'd have a pottery wheel and everything!"
"My studio would over look the ocean"
I would bite my lower lip
trying to grip onto the grass
remind myself I was still here
while he'd breathe
tell me the world will still be spinning
tomorrow
but I guess that makes sense
as if I can't see the empty room
he became
the way my heart still fluttered
when someone said his name.
He died today and all I can remember is the one time we skipped class and chased clouds.
Alex Greenwell Aug 2017
it was surprising the first night I saw you right before me. skin imprinted with the pattern of lace, the light scattering in a cacophony of projections against your porcelain skin. lightning marks against your throat and thunder rumbling in your eyes. it was unexpected.

in no way were you tame. fragile, perhaps. superficial, undoubtedly. beautiful, certainly. but never tame. never would your wrist be bound. the sharpness in your teeth and flick of your flesh would never allow anything so shallow as domesticity.

you were raised out of the authentic. molded from clay, the word "impossible" placed under your tongue and mouth closed shut. a shattered childhood born from an indian-summer sun frosted by wildflower springs.

so here I stood, gazing up at ceramic wonder. earthen-ware and glazed glass. a sculpture of femininity by all aspects, by all respects. left to become memorialized in a wilderness, little time noticed.
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