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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.
Nashoba Aug 2017
Was just dust or dirt to most. Ignorant as to what the earth truly hosts.
From ancient times, what is now considered art. Taught to combine the elements into art.
Red earth, crushes quartz and sand add a little water. Smash it all between my hands. Work it like making bread she says. Put your energy into each piece you create for those outside, maybe they will keep it by their bed.
Your inner strength mixed with the earthen powers is how you create health for all those that you shall encounter.
Your art is unique as the earth is as well. Only a very a small group of people can tell.
Maybe at a pow wow. A stranger picks up a piece, eyes meet no words speak.  You might see some change, you might even feel their pain. Maybe you can pull that away. Or maybe you will even bring them peace even if it's just for that moment or that whole day, you will never know how long, you will just know that you served your purpose on that particular day. You come from the family of healers. Remember your gifts. Never forget your people. Never forget what you have to give.
Nashoba copyrighted 2017
Terry Collett Jun 2017
Austen handed out
lumps of brown clay
and dumped it
in front
of each boy
in the classroom
onto a wooden desk.

I broke off
a piece of clay
like he said
flattened it
as a base.

Then rolled out
another piece
into a narrow
oval strip
about a foot long.

We had to twirl it
around the base
to make a ***
then smooth down
the joins.

Austen then walked
among the boys
with his stare
through thin
wire-framed glasses.

He stopped
by my desk
what's that?
he said.

A *** Sir
I replied.

He stared at it
bring it
to the front
he said.

I picked up
the clay ***
on the palm
of my hand
walked
to the front
of class.

Lift it up
so all can see
he said.

I lifted it up.

This is how
NOT
to make a ***
he said
Coles has
obviously
not been listening
or watching
what I have
been saying
or showing.

A few kids
sniggered
out of fear
of not doing so
rather than mirth.

Had you been
watching me
or listening
to me Coles?
he said.

Yes Sir
I said.

It does Not
look like it.

He took the ***
slammed it
on to his desk
shooed me
away from him
plopping
the misshaped clay
in my palm.

Go sit down Coles.

I took
my lump of clay
and sat down.

Other kids
stared ahead
**** scared
of Austen
to look away.

I stared at him
taking in
his stern features
and pockmarked skin
and grinned within.
A BOY AND HIS POTTERY CLASS TEACHER IN LONDON 1959.
Paula Sullaj Feb 2017
Right now I am in my cabin
In the woods,with books,fire
And a lot of mud to recreate
What should have been reality.
Distant tastes of imaginary pleasures.
Fill me!
JR Potts Oct 2016
I hate to be the bearer of bad news baby
but I was broken a long time ago.
I had hoped
when I showed you that video
on kintsugi, the Japanese art
of repairing broken pottery
with lacquer and powered gold
that you would've seen our history
was not meant to be hidden,
that our imperfections,
the cracks in our ceramics
were meant to be illuminated
with gold
Mollie Grant Apr 2016
I want to know
what it feels like
for reconciliation
to wash over
my fault lines.
Take my cracks
and paint them
with gold.
Let me glimmer,
                   gleam,
                           and glow
redemption.
Illuminate my mistakes
and let my skeleton
frame out a museum
of triumph
Mahdiya Patel Apr 2016
Art
I am honored to have been merged with such a well crafted human being
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