Instructions: How to make a pottery bowl
Take a lump of clay between your limping fingers. Let the lump
assume a shape. All thing assume a shape in the grip of
Renounce each finger. Your palm is the tail of a swing, a
merry-go-round. You can barely feel your fingers. Withhold
strength in the capsule of the wrist. Let it gather like
sediments in rain.
Now let the fingers run. You can feel them only slightly, a
thing on the verge, an extension, like your senses on a flight,
crossing realm after realm.
You can feel the clay as it assumes a rhythm. You are in the
middle of a ceremony. A ceremony of birth. You are a mother with
her umbilical cord twirling in dance.
You watch the clay begin to assemble. As its body gathers a more
definite form, yours loses. You begin to abandon yourself. You
are neither clay nor human. You are the ringing hands.
You are the motion that ceaselessly draws upon itself. That
roams in an ellipse, the heartbeat of a nuclear star, defying
both gravity and notions of time.
You dip your hands in water. Your fingers, tiny mermaids that
make droplets rise in charm. You collect water in nails and
temporary loops, then smear the clay.
The clay rises, rises like a tower. Its apex driving into your
numbed being, your heightened senses. You slowly start to arrive
in the future but you never abandon the present.
You are the largeness of past and present steadily advancing
into a future. The clay rises beneath the eye pouch and from the
corner, the iris gleams on its edge like a midnight sun.
The clay has risen. Now you draw breath from the belly and drive
straight in. Plunge into the thick stomach. Make a pouch of
slimy air. Build a vacuum, a mouth in the very centre.
This is the star. This hole is the final step. This is where the
tired wind shall rest. The fluttering leaves shall fall into it.
This, this emptiness is where the clay learns, interacts with
its world. This is where you withdraw.
You, still humming forever, your hands forever bound to the
rhythm. Two bowls with cleaved spaces burning in air. Birthing,
holding, singing of life in hollowness.
I lay open
A seed halved,
hammer to the bone
blades of pink flesh,
thistles slicing proximity into anticipation
gather around my being
and gather around my beingó
Like mud beneath the grass
to cough up weary dreams
A nameless treachery by the windowsill
A wallow of whale-blue light
A perennial day
along the neat triangle
of table peace
the setting is dishonest
I cannot seem to discern
The lamp skull
withdraws into a sly,
While the window
seems to be burning
There are hot,
and the cheeks sink into
a queasy suspension
Autumn drifting past them,
barely saying a word
matchsticks cut through the air
The sweet stench of betrayal
hissing into air pockets
an even, blue sky
And the leaves are sweet,
delectable in their embroidered green
Yet the fingers,
the fingers run,
run like buttermilk across black dreams
And I cannot seem
to gulp the brevity
that is creation
That a single window can witness
such polarised scenes