A New Vessel Poem by David Taylor
A New Vessel
The clay lay on the table before me;
it has just arrived and freed from its sack
with preserving amniotic fluid.
When it had first arrived at the door
and with the excitement of the delivery
fresh in mind I had lit a cigarette;
and considered the infinite potential
inherent in its elemental state.
Now ready to be thrown upon the wheel
that quietly spun and whirled,
with a gentle hum of life.
With no particular end formed in sight
I lay it softly down on the spinning platter,
that hummed and spun and turned.
I took one hand and thrust
into the very centre and with great love,
pressed out;
with another hand outside,
close bye,
to hold and restrain the outward force.
A magnificent vessel formed before my eyes.
The form of beauty spun
with that hum of life,
fashioned from love inside
and training hand without.
Its essential nature
always present in each grain of clay,
just the same as when it first arrived,
now magnified by its perfect shape.
What shall it hold I thought;
not for me to say,
when hardened by the fire
it will roam the world
and be filled with all things
that its destiny will make.
But the beauty of its form
is well suited
to hold the very finest
and keep it held from harm.
I also have had the experience of throwing a pot on the wheel. The process can be quite rewarding. I mavel at the human qualities contained within the form of the vessel. Nicely done. Interesting read.
your words spoke of beauty, its frailty, in clay, of birth, creation, nativity, the vessel holding the form of life, to behold, to contain...and mold, according to lifes' continuing hold
What shall it hold? ....i think it holds all you felt while moulding it, hope it was a big vessel, lovely....smiling alana
In centuries to come it may be found whole or broken in the earth's soil to give pleasure to whoever finds it, as we today find treasures in the mud beneath our feet. A lovely creation of a poem in every way. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX
I remember the slippery feel of the clay between the two hands - the left still, providing the anchor, the guide, the other gently easing, loving the pot into shape. What a superb metaphor for the role of a loving parent from the first moment of birth to the final push from the nest. Superb poem, warm and filled with wonder. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
This was wonderful to read, it hummed along so nicely, and left the impression of the clay spinning on the wheel. Very nice work. Thanks
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 9:05:33 PM # 1.0.0.1119
I liked this David, a story of the lump of clay being formed into something useful, I did pottery at school however my efforts always flew off the spinning potters wheel lol, although I made a model of an African woman once which wasn't too bad. Lynda xx