The Cooking Pot Poem by RIC BASTASA

our cooking pot is not made of porcelain
or silver or gold but it is made of the mud
of this earth
hardened by time and fire and too much
waiting

our patience consumed
our waiting had been too long about this cooking
pot, earthen
where we put all our dreams and cook them
like rice
porridge, all of our dreams
fired by the woods of our reminiscence
our longings our loneliness our daily concerns
our future wishes

and then when the time comes to open
and see and smell what rice porridge is

we say we like it we say we love it
only to be repulsed by this visitor in the house

'this is not cooking! This is not good! ' and he stares at us
and says, we need more fire, more wood, more time
to have the perfect porridge

i went out unable to stand this hunger
unable to see what this visitor says

it is our fault we allowed him in
we open our doors and windows and let him sleep in our room

as we lay on the floors and keep ourselves on the stairs.

'this is too much' i said.

'he must leave this house at once' i told you.

this is our pot. this is our porridge. this is our cooking.
and we must eat. we must love what we have.

'get out of my house' i said.

and then i am relieved from an opression.
i am happier now. My pot is earthen. Its bottom is sooty black.

i am blue. And i do not really mind.
This is my porridge. You may take it, if you like.