Our race attains by careful steps (we say),
to knowledge of our clay;
the cleft of rock from whence it came, we know
percents of sand and loam,
of precious ores, and what the lime, and what
the iron readings say.
But if we care (says she) who mined the cleft,
who loved us first, gave breath,
and turned us on the wheel – we gain that life
from whence he came, who donned
our clay, to face and finish death – these things
the higher readings say.
Needy hearts (we say) find hope from fear of
fay warnings and unknowns.
We trust in high firings – turning wheels make
us true; fine glazes are
for strength and length of days – all these are knowns,
in minutes and degrees.
I see shards in a vale like dry bones (says she),
where hearts find no rain
and go begging for signs worth possessing;
asking “Whither after?”
not even knowing whether they were
vessels of wrath or blessing.
J.F.S. Anngeister, 2011, all rights reserved.
Note: The poem has absorbed so much time in the past 2 weeks that I publish it here hoping to set it in stone, and to move on (I probably can’t).
The rhyme is irregular but functional, I think, and the six-line stanzas 10-6-10-6-10-6 (with rare but warranted exceptions) helped me embrace words which – out of thousands of wonderfully ‘possible’ and very deserving words – seemed to me most ‘fit’ to join my thoughts together in this particular case.
I worry that my meaning has become too terse from the lines being overwrought, and this makes me feel like writing more lines than I did. However, I decided that any more than four stanzas would run the pottery metaphor into the ground.