When I write a work that, in closing, nears its end,
Sealed and sorted, I compare it to having thrown
Wet clay that takes shape and form on a potter’s wheel,
Between my working hands, where the shape I can feel,
As the hand of a dear long held and much loved friend,
Who through life, lives and loves, the both of us have grown.
The words, like the clay are taking their final form.
It moves until it stands still, an inperfect shape,
Holding logic and value to me as a piece,
Imperfect that it is, its worth may not increase.
Before it dries I shift the shape, it still feels warm,
The piece to the clay, like the vine is to the grape.
So too, the word of the poem is to the page,
The page alone is worth nothing without the word,
Layed out, layed down, upon the pure white sheet
And fussed about, and manouvred until complete,
The thought of words are nothing, if they go unheard,
As would be the message of the well meaning sage.
That is why, somehow I often feel quite so blank,
As if the words I’ve written were given away,
Like a secret recipe, of savoured delight,
Or the hours with a lover, in a sinful night,
Where, the husband’s best brandy, the two of us drank,
And in front of the fire, on the rug we did lay.
So, the recipe of words is noted to page,
Committed to paper, like the potter’s dry clay,
And I cannot take them back, or the words unwrite,
Any more than yesterday can take back tonight,
Or mine or your voice breathe back the words that we say,
Or the agèd give back all of their years to a day
The words are now lost to me, spilt upon the floor
Like the broken glass of the valued precious wine.
Yet, words there are a plenty; troves, stores of treasure,
Of the same words, jumbled and yet for a measure,
They wait like preaching Christians at a heathen’s door,
Yet unmatched, yet paired, yet provided with a sign.
Does the Potter ponder, sorry for loss of clay,
When sitting and contemplaying the finished bowl?
Does the Weaver feel a great sadness for the silk?
The cow feel regret for the giving up the milk?
Why do I feel a loss for an hour or a day
As if buried to the neck in a sand filled hole?
The feeling I bare comes not from any regret
For writing the words, but I remain ill at ease.
If it is well made, who will raise the Potter’s jug?
And if well made, who will lay on the Weaver’s rug?
What sorrow there is when memory we forget,
What sorrow there is too when garden has not trees.
Inalienable Write 