Pornpen Hantrakool














 



Aakriti Kuntal


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 circumstances.

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.

 

Fissure


Each spring
I lay open
A seed halved,
hammer to the bone

I spread,
blades of pink flesh,
thistles slicing proximity into anticipation

I squirm,
gather around my being

I squirm
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

perspires
along the neat triangle
of table peace

Something about
the setting is dishonest

I cannot seem to discern

The lamp skull
withdraws into a sly,
whiskered smile

While the window
seems to be burning
with nothing

There are hot,
hot fumes
and the cheeks sink into
a queasy suspension

Autumn drifting past them,
barely saying a word

I smell
matchsticks cut through the air
The sweet stench of betrayal
hissing into air pockets

Meanwhile,
birds crisscross
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

 


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