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Interesting to see how each aspect of clay affects the poem. I can tell who throws, who casts, and even who does functional ware. Apparently "slop" is viewed in a negative light, as is wedging. Imaginative bunch you are. I am rather fond of green eggs and ham by the way. Just confirms my belief that expression will find its way out of a creative soul; rather it be clay, paint, wood, or poetry. Besides, good way to DE-stress in the middle of the summer production season.

Nerd

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Evelyne:

 

Flower exercised "poetic license" which allows freedom of interpretation. The good news is, you have the same license. Actually that is what poetic pottery is all about: injecting poetic license into form and glaze.

 

Nerd

 

I just knew someone would get all 'legal' on us.  To wit, @glazenerd, which should we have?:

  • Personal Porcelanic Poetry Permit
  • Raku Rhyme Rights
  • Alumina Alliteration Allowance
  • Slop-py Sonnet Syntax Sanction

Inquiring minds want to know *snicker*,

-Paul

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perhaps it’s the heat

my brain like sausage meat 

that makes me quite odd

alas to the kiln shed i plod

 

load in the pots

my sciatic nerve now in knots

program the firing

kiln gremlins conspiring?

 

then back to the wheel

that holds most appeal

till i make a mess of it

that i can do lickety split

 

must remember to mop the floor,

a chore i adore

no mess in my space!

said with a poker face

 

i'm starting to think,

said with a nod and a wink 

i have a screw loose

hmm, glaze chemical abuse?

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"Twas brilling, and the slighty tow

did wither in the way----

 

Jaberwocky.. by Carol Lewis.

Have not read it since 9th grade, but still remember it.

 

Apparently I only remembered half his name however. Sorry

9th grade is closing in on 50 years ago.

 

Nerd

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Just a quick offering.

 

 

 

When I was much younger,

I learned to throw.

Worked forever trying to get the clay to center you know,

then even longer to make the sidewalls grow.

 

The years went by, and older I grew,

but my poor throwing skills did a little too.

I picked up a little about glazes, and tool making along the way,

all in the pursuit of working with clay.

 

I taught others my craft, while the years continued on,

and they learned some and taught me more.

Some went on following as I had before,

becoming teachers, and potters adding to the score.

 

I make pots, big and small, fat and tall

some for service, and some for the ball.

While I am never settled, always questing,

I begin to wonder if I should be resting.

 

Time is wasting, and my years are long

Teaching is never over, even today

the message is the same though the classroom is no longer,

it is still about the clay.

 

Tomorrow brings another day of work, and fun,

working with the clay.

Questions and solutions are part of my day,

how to approach them others may say.

 

That is part of the wonder,

of working today.

Help is often

only a keyboard away.

 

So when my journey comes to an end

and my fingers no longer will bend,

remember my moments,

among the best of friends.

 

 

 

best,

Pres

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Dear Denice,

Not to make one look lame, but words to tame. 

The feelings was yours; the words fit the same.

I find trimming a pain, and your words fit the name.

In the end each their own,

messages knit and sewn. We value each 

and the way they teach!

 

 

best,

Pres

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CLAY, MY WAY

 

Art is not therapy, my instructor said.

(Hell it isn’t, it’s why I’m not dead.)

I ignore the man and just plug on,

tho I detour a lot – long dusk, long dawn.

Now back to the business of art as life

I finally shed all the old strife.

 

Little wheel, spin and spin

Please help my porcelain to pull up thin.

But no it is not to be, my throwing rates barely a C.

So back to the work table as I sing

along with the music that I play;

it seems to help me find my way.

 

I honor the blocks of earthy delight

As I cut and wedge, and then I strike.

With my hands I rip and tear

and I leave the marks all over the ware.

Rough and strange and a little bit chancy

I do it my way ‘cuz it suits my fancy.

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LeeU:  therapeutic poetry: I think most of us pour our emotions into our work. Your poem did however remind me of some thoughts I had about clay therapy. My niece's son is autistic: very reactive to sensory stimulus. I often wondered how he would react to the touch of clay? Also  wondered if any have used clay in therapy settings for autistic kids? I have gone through your gallery: you have a very unique expression in your forms: enjoyed viewing them.

Nerd

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