I Say Clay Oh
i say clay oh
dough sticky
flower white
turn to lotus
ripple flow
the river bed
no more to know
than a drop
of clay oh light
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Stone
The days have passed, nights are gone,
I'm still in love with a stone,
The seasons changed, the clay too came,
I still hold it with no moan,
The clay comes to me in so many shapes,
Wants me to hold it, whatever it may take,
But clay can hurt me, clay may fake,
Even if it's clay, I have a heart it can break,
The season may change,
The clay may go,
Slowing my heart beat,
All time low,
Stone is hard,
Stone is black,
Stone is emotionless,
Doesn't stab at back,
The clay, the stone, both make me die,
But if a stone does, even the clay may cry...
and I'll never ask why...
It's better to live with a stone,
not clay,
Clay is soft, but it hurts,
which is not the stone's way.....
poem by Apurva Jain
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Peace Proposal
Said General Clay to General Gore really must we fight this silly war
To kill and die in such a bore I quite agree said General Gore
Said General Gore to General Clay we could go to the beach today
And have some icecream on the way a grand idea said General Clay
Said General Clay to General Gore we'll build sand castles on the shore
Said General Gore we'll splash and play let's leave right now said General Clay
Said General Gore to General Clay but what if the sea's closed today
And what if the sand's been blown away the dreadful thought said General Clay
Said General Gore to General Clay I've always feared the ocean's spray
And we may drown it's true we may it chills my blood said General Clay
Said General Clay to General Gore my bathin' suit is slightly tore
We better go on with our war I quite agree said General Gore
The General Clay chanrged General Gore as bullets flew and cannons roared
And now at last there is no more of General Clay or General Gore
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Generals
Said General Clay to General Gore,
'Oh must we fight this silly war?
To kill and die is such a bore.'
'I quite agree,' said General Gore.
Said General Gore to General Clay,
'We could go to the beach today
And have some ice cream on the way.'
'A grand idea,' said General Clay.
Said General Gore to General Clay,
'But what if the sea is closed today?
And what if the sand's been blown away?'
'A dreadful thought,' said General Clay.
Said General Gore to General Clay,
'I've always feared the ocean's spray,
And we may drown!' 'It's true, we may.
It chills my blood,' said General Clay.
Said General Clay to General Gore,
'My bathing suit is slightly tore.
We'd better go on with our war.'
'I quite agree,' said General Gore.
Then General Clay charged General Gore
As bullets flew and cannons roared.
And now, alas! there is no more
Of General Clay or General Gore.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Clay Woman
Clay woman, baked too long
Stone cold, deep red, stand
Clay woman, heat too high,
Brittle with the remnant demand
Too long in the kiln
Not set at bake but sear
Scorched beauty remains,
But not a breath be near
Can't breathe too hard,
Clay woman may turn to dust
Can't look too long
For clay woman may combust,
And above all else,
Do not touch her heart,
Her back will break,
Her wounds will smart,
Clay woman, baked too long
All hope and joy abstains,
Clay woman, heat too high
Can my tears salvage my remains?
poem by Eowyn Aurora
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Life Is Like A Flower, A River, A Ripple Of The Sky
life is like a flower
tell me, like is like a river, tell me,
life is like a ripple of clouds in the sky, tell me
i tell you, the flower blooms and wilts, the river flows and dries, the ripple
of the clouds in the sky drifts, and travels and sees a lot
and then fall into rain
and seeps to the ground and nowhere to be found
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clay Thoughts!
there are some hard truths,
we often fail to believe
rather we succeed to forget
we are made of clay....
yes clay, i mean it
molded to be a wonder called human
still u feel reluctant to walk barefoot
feeling the mud itself is dirty for you! !
i am no exception
the extreme of identity crisis
the thought that disturbs u and me
we are clay
poem by Felix Lama
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A Flower Cut From Desire
The lotus is a flower cut from desire
Whatever her hue her petals attire
She is the goddess that sank into…
The muddy waters - arose anew.
Her purity and beauty is no cauldron.
Thou portrayed to symbolize the sun
She is but a spiritual, awakening…
A flower of prosperity, meaning.
A symbol of fertility, spirituality,
And even in her purest-state eternity.
The blue lotus is victory over wisdom
Pink the supreme lotus, Buddha's pilgrim.
The lotus path to noble truths is Purple
White purity spiritual perfection mental.
The Red lotus is related to the heart,
Associated with, love and compassion.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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From the Banks of Ganga: IV
I sit by your banks
In awe of your flow
A parallel flow within
Watches every ripple:
Indefinable happiness
Peace is absence of
Even a ripple of thought
What follows peace is bliss
I suppose…
Loitering and searching
The best place to meet
The loved one is by
One's own banks of the heart
Where flows Gangs of love
The flow overwhelms me
Doesn't allow me stretch my hand
For the other…
I'm unto myself!
So you flow
So do I
Not against your tide
But with your flow
Flow Flow Flow!
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Be clay
Don’t be half-hearted about this –
be clay.
You know all about clay –
be clay.
Humble, submissive, reverent –
awaiting the Potter’s hands.
Enjoy that humility, that surrender –
feel already so near God.
Now the wheel begins to turn –
the Potter is here!
Feel His hands – the more you feel them,
the more you know the love in them.
Now you’re being shaped:
turned on the wheel like a dervish turns,
you’re becoming like that tall column of stillness,
rising from the centre of the whirling skirt;
still; in the memory of the Potter’s hands;
you recognise yourself who waited for you.
*
[leaning on the poems of Hafiz]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Born to blossom
A girl is born to blossom and conceive
And is set to lure every boy with her waves,
For which she is endowed with some features
As every flower blossoms with some fortunes.
May be she is a lotus, well cut in contour,
Or a rose, fair and lovely to encounter,
Or an oleander with flavour in her manner.
Some are born like lily, white and bright,
Or like a wild flower, full of talents,
Or one in a bunch, known for her clan,
And in the case of a diminutive one,
It’s a flower with colourful brackets.
When she is none of the above
Comes to her rescues her youth in glow
As comes to any flower the nectar in flow.
Each one has some features
to serve its race a purpose.
06.08.96
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Enigma with Flower
Victory. It has come late, I had not learnt
how to arrive, like the lily, at will,
the white figure, that pierces
the motionless eternity of earth,
pushing at clear, faint, form,
till the hour strikes: that clay,
with a white ray, or a spur of milk.
Shedding of clothing, the thick darkness of soil,
on whose cliff the fair flower advances,
till the flag of its whiteness
defeats the contemptible deep of night,
and, from the motion of light,
spills itself in astonished seed.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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In The Slight Ripple, The Mind Perceives The Heart
In the slight ripple, the fishes dart
Like fingers, centrifugal, like wishes
Wanton. And pleasures rise
as the eyes fall
Through the lucid water. The small pebble,
The clear clay bottom, the white shell
Are apparent, though superficial.
Who would ask more of the August afternoon?
Who would dig mines and follow shadows?
"I would," answers bored Heart, "Lounger, rise"
(Underlip trembling, face white with stony anger),
"The old error, the thought of sitting still,
"The senses drinking, by the summer river,
"On the tended lawn, below the traffic,
"As if time would pause,
and afternoon stay.
"No, night comes soon,
"With its cold mountains, with desolation,
unless Love build its city."
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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The lotus eye
A lotus is born in muddy water
You cannot grow lotus anywhere else
A sage is born in a decadent world
Jesus never comes during any golden age
He came in an age harrowed by humbugs
A lotus has eyes
They are enamoured of the Sun
Jesus had lotus eyes
They could see the Sun and nothing else
He saw light and nothing else
He was always in light
The lotus is the Sun on earth
Jesus was the Sun on earth
When we pray to Jesus
Our prayer goes to a lotus
When we caress a lotus
We caress God the Son
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Lotus of River
Amid the irreconcilable, unbridgeable distance
between two banks
Flows a brawny mighty river
hiding the satiation satisfaction
of caressing a lotus atop
its meandering flows
battling the intrusive sea, fauna and fowl
The river a philosopher, a poet, a warrior
to all that gawk at its might
remain indulged; involved; and
into its lotus
** Dedicated to the river that is keeping my lotus safe
poem by Frank Lisa IndiRa Francesca Roger Platt Cornish Ma
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A Child Like Clay
A child like clay is pliable
Guidance molds him with each day
With right values, he grows up able
To live his life and not go astray.
A child like clay adapts the form
He bends and follows as one leads
To what is true he will conform
Absorbing the wisdom that he needs.
A child like clay when left alone
Hardens up warped and marred,
To doing wrong he is always prone,
His life is a mess, he ends up scarred.
A child like clay when hardened wrong
Will need a thorough brokenness
A crushing from which he will be strong
A new creation, born from forgiveness
-
'Stern discipline awaits him who leaves the path,
he who hates correction will die.'
Proverbs 15: 10
-
Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
February 2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Revolution clay/clay metamorphosis
clayed live performance
dissolving into realities of clayness
tranformations of forms
alchemist's transformations of performances as forms
revolution clay/clay metamorphosis
clayed revolution blue
texture of clay-history
composed speed-logic of the uncreative urban legends
speed-logic of rich soil
questions and?
clayed lives.
A Country Life
A bird that I don't know,
Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow,
Looks sideways out into the wheat
The wind waves under the waves of heat.
The field is yellow as egg-bread dough
Except where (just as though they'd let
It live for looks) a locust billows
In leaf-green and shade-violet,
A standing mercy.
The bird calls twice, "Red clay, red clay";
Or else he's saying, "Directly, directly."
If someone came by I could ask,
Around here all of them must know --
And why they live so and die so --
Or why, for once, the lagging heron
Flaps from the little creek's parched cresses
Across the harsh-grassed, gullied meadow
To the black, rowed evergreens below.
They know and they don't know.
To ask, a man must be a stranger --
And asking, much more answering, is dangerous;
Asked about it, who would not repent
Of all he ever did and never meant,
And think a life and its distresses,
Its random, clutched-for, homefelt blisses,
The circumstances of an accident?
The farthest farmer in a field,
A gaunt plant grown, for seed, by farmers,
Has felt a longing, lorn urbanity
Jailed in his breast; and, just as I,
Has grunted, in his old perplexity,
A standing plea.
From the tar of the blazing square
The eyes shift, in their taciturn
And unavowing, unavailable sorrow.
Yet the intonation of a name confesses
Some secrets that they never meant
To let out to a soul; and what words would not dim
The bowed and weathered heads above the denim
Or the once-too-often washed wash dresses?
They are subdued to their own element.
One day
The red, clay face
Is lowered to the naked clay;
After some words, the body is forsaken
The shadows lengthen, and a dreaming hope
Breathes, from the vague mound, Life;
From the grove under the spire
Stars shine, and a wandering light
Is kindled for the mourner, man.
The angel kneeling with the wreath
Sees, in the moonlight, graves.
poem by Randall Jarrell
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Apollonius Of Tyana In Rhodes
Apollonius was talking about
proper education and conduct with a young
man who was building a luxurious
house in Rhodes. "As for me" said the Tyanian
at last, "when I enter a temple
however small it may be, I very much prefer
to see a statue of ivory and gold
than a clay and vulgar one in a large temple".--
The "clay" and "vulgar"; the detestable:
that already some people (without enough training)
it deceives knavishly. The clay and vulgar.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Three Eternities
Lo, thou and I, my love,
And the sad stars above,-
Thou and I, I and thou!
Ah could we lie as now
Ever and aye, my love,
Hand within hand, my love,
Heart within heart, my dove,
Through night and day
For ever!
Lo, thou and I, my love,
Up in the sky above,
Where the sun makes his home
And the gods are, my love,
One day may wander from
Star unto star, my love,-
Soul within soul, my love,
Yonder afar
For ever!
Lo, thou and I, my love,
Some time shall lie, my love,
Knowing not night from day,
Knowing not toil from rest,-
Breast unto breast, my love,
Even as now for aye:
Clay within clay, my love,
Clay within clay
For ever!
poem by William Watson
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Death
NEVER again:
No child shall stir the inmost heart of her
And teach her heaven by that first faint stir;
No little lips shall lie against her breast
Save the cold lips that now lie there at rest;
No little voice shall rouse her from her sleep
And bid her wake to pain:
Her sleep is calm and deep,
Call not! refrain.
Close in her arm
As though even death drew back before the face
Of Motherhood in this white stilly place,
The gathered bud lies waxen white and cold,
As ever a flower your winter gardens hold.
She bore the pain, she never wore the crown,
She worked the bitter charm,
But all she won thereby is here laid down
Renounced--for good or harm.
Dream? Feed your soul
With dreams, while we must starve our hearts on clay,
Dream of a glorious white-winged sun-crowned day
When you shall see her once more face to face
Beside Christ's Mother in the blessed place!
But while you dream, they carry her from here,
The black bells toll and toll.
Oh God! if only she cannot see or hear,
Not hear those ghoul-like bells that crowd so near,
Not see that cold clay hole.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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