Refinement Of A Pot
Refinement of a pot appears effete
if you don’t like irregularities.
Once baked inside a kiln the searing heat
preserves forever angularities
that may be smoothed while it is wet and warm,
yet only when it’s finally been glazed
are faults seen in perspective, in a form
that sometimes tells the viewer: be amazed.
Inspired by Christopher Knight’s review of an exhibition of the pots of the Biloxi potter, George E. Ohr, in the American Museum of Ceramic Art in Pomona (“Pottery with a Modernist twist, ” LA Times, December 26,2007) :
Ohr was a certified eccentric, not least as indicated by the 20-inch mustache he reportedly draped over his ears to keep from getting it tangled in the spinning potter's wheel. But he was nonetheless a gifted journeyman. The son of an Eastern European immigrant blacksmith, he was taught the potter's traditional craft by an Alsatian father-and-son team, first in Biloxi and later in New Orleans.
Ohr learned how to prepare clay, build kilns and manipulate standard glaze formulas. He also spent two years traveling the Midwest and the South examining rival production facilities, to better know the competition. He regularly visited (and sometimes showed his wares at) giant trade shows, such as Chicago's famous 1893 World's Columbian Exposition. The souvenirs sold at these fairs, such as the Christopher Columbus coins designed by the preeminent sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens for the Chicago extravaganza, might also have provided inspiration. The Pomona show includes five so-called 'brothel coins' that Ohr made for the Gulf Coast tourist trade. Each small, unglazed clay disk pairs words with a low-relief image to make a verbal-visual rebus: 'I love U' written above a leaping deer; 'let's go 2' above a bed; and other, bawdier couplings. A far cry from Saint-Gaudens' lofty allusion to classical Roman coins, Ohr's comic souvenirs reflected his own oddball character. In a nation uncomfortable with art, being wacky could function as a defensive mechanism - as a wink and a nod that minimized the threat of being taken seriously. With nothing left to lose after his pottery burned to the ground, Ohr unleashed his expert technical skill. Rather than return to producing utilitarian dishes and vases for the home, he began to play with conventional ceramic forms. He began to make art. Pomona is the first stop on a tour prepared by Biloxi's Ohr-O'Keefe Museum of Art, whose large collection happily survived the brutal assault of Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Twenty-eight of the pieces are from the museum's collection, while the rest have been lent by private collections in Mississippi and California.
12/27/07
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Narcisissma
Narcisissma, Narcisissma is the pride of Pomona,
Pomona, Pomona says she looks like me.
But she will look like you when I'm set free.
Narcisissma, Narcisissma is the belle of Biloxi,
Biloxi, Biloxi says she's not your kind
But Narcisissma gives me peace of mind.
She's got no braids in the inkwell, no money on the prize.
Ain't got no boyfriend behind her that she can't hypnotize.
And if you wanna see yourself without delusions or delies.
All you do is just look into her eyes.
Narcisissma, Narcisissma has no pride or delusions,
Delusions, delusions make me turn my face
But Narcisissma let's me find my place.
She's got no grudges, no crutches, no pigment and no peeves.
No cryers, no pliers, no liars and no sleeves.
And she will always tell you every thing that she believes.
She's got no belly button too, no high heeled shoe.
Narcisissma, Narcisissma is the pride of Pomona,
Pomona, Pomona says she looks like me.
But she will look like you when I'm set free.
Well everybody's lookin' like they're s'posed to
But nobody's lookin' very good.
So when you find somebody to get close to
Well don't you think you should?
Narcisissma, Narcisissma loves to thrill and delight me,
Delight me, delight me and I'll never quit
'Cause Narcisissma knows just where I fit.
She's got no tight draws, locked doors, nothin' on the side.
Ain't got no skin flaws, in-laws, nothin' left to hide.
And if you need a new location where you'll best be satisfied
You might prefer, to fall in love with her
Narcisissma, Narcisissma is the pride of Pomona,
Pomona, says she looks like me.
But she will look like you when I'm set free.-a
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Biloxi
By: jesse winchester
19? ?
Down around biloxi
Pretty girls are swimmin in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
Boy will fill his pale with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards new orleans
The sun shines on biloxi
The air is filled with vapors from the sea
The boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dreams underwater
And the sun will set from off towards new orleans
Stars can see biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards new orleans
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two Chocolate Labs
This was wrote to my wife, Sharon about our two chocolate labs. Biloxi is male, Cherokee is female. One we named for the place we were engaged, the other the place we had our honeymoon.
When you look at our two Chocolate Labs tell me what do you see.
Do you see just two big dogs named Biloxi and the other Cherokee.
Next time you look at them, look at them hard.
They are more than two Chocolate Labs out in our yard.
Cherokee is a symbol of our never ending love.
She is to remind us that our marriage is blessed from above.
Cherokee is the place that I ask you to marry me by a cold rolling mountain stream.
This is the place that we will hold in our hearts and keep in our dreams.
Biloxi is a symbol of the love that we have and share.
He is to remind us of a place that is the answer to our prayers.
Biloxi is the place where our honeymoon was to be.
This is the place that sealed our love for then, now and all eternity.
Biloxi and Cherokee are more than two Chocolate Labs you see.
Yes, they are two symbols of two special places called Biloxi and the other Cherokee.
So next time you look at them, look and them with love.
These are our two special gifts to us, from heaven above.
poem by Eddie Fullbright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sestina: A bird in the bamboo
The potter carried home a broken plate
and passing through a grove of tall bamboo,
some thing within disturbed the verdant sheen.
Intrigued, he stopped awhile to rest and wait.
A bird shot skyward, straight as arrow true,
turned somersaults and plunged back into green.
The bird had left the safety of the green,
to see from high the land as coloured plate.
An overview, to give perspective true.
Imprint in mind a map of home's bamboo
and then to hide and rest in patient wait,
before an insect hunt by thin moon's sheen.
The potter's wife delighted in the sheen,
of jagged shards of crackle-glazed jade green.
With supper not quite ready, while he wait,
he set about to mend the shattered plate.
When laid beside their wares of plain bamboo,
it's beauty shone and both declared this true.
The potter was perfectionist, it's true,
who long had strived to replicate the sheen,
of leafy shades of celadon bamboo.
One day, the kiln revealed translucent green.
The pottery's proud owner chose a plate,
as gift to Empress, hopeful then to wait.
Official staff with retinue in wait,
by Emperor's decree paid tribute true.
A portered chair arrived of fine gold-plate,
to honour maker of such lovely sheen.
Asway, the potter turned a sickly green
and gripped the shouldered poles of stout bamboo.
In city, thoughts returned to tall bamboo
and how it seemed the bird could hardly wait,
to fly back home within the dappled green.
The potter's mind was strong, his heart was true.
He learned of commerce, trade and coin's sheen,
but dreamt of home and wife and mended plate.
Back home, at last, amongst the green bamboo,
rich plate collectors, clothed in silken sheen,
confirmed that true rewards are worth the wait.
poem by Diane Hine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Can You, A Jar of clay?
How can a lowly piece of clay
Unto the Master Potter say:
'Let me be You for I am me,
Enough to be what I can be.'
Release me from Your Hand Divine,
Alone I stand, my life is mine.
My puny mental capacity
Can plan the course of the galaxy.
I will fix all worldly tangled mess,
Yes I can solve it with success -
Correct the climate, filter sunlight,
Outlive all beings though I'm finite.
I will cure diseases with one click,
Stop all wars, peace is quick.
From heaven pour all currency,
To rid the world of poverty.
In my spare time, piece of cake-
Rapists, murderers I will remake.
All these evils I will remove,
Just make me You, this I will prove.
I need no cross to save mankind,
That is passe and quite unkind.
I will set us up a world consortium,
I will even build my own asylum.
Make me You, I bet You will see
My little view is not blasphemy.
One more thing, God, can you tell?
For my info, is there a hell?
Then the Master Potter set
That jar of clay from earth's closet,
Released it from His Mighty Hand,
It broke to pieces, ground to sand.
Now just a sort of mild direction,
To jars of clay with like ambition-
Humbly think before you say,
You will run the world, can you...
a clay?
..................................... ..................................
August 10,2008
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Though Pot I am, I am Thine Pot!
Potter, Potter, making clay-pot!
Did you make me misshap’n somewhat?
Was it perhaps done on purpose?
Should I blame myself for my cross?
Perhaps, I was untimely born,
Or made in haste, Thine shop adorn!
May be Thine mood was not that good,
When Thou made me out of mere clod!
Perhaps, the mix was rather wrong,
Or else Thou sang a sadder song!
Perhaps, water salty was used;
And so I crack’d a bit when baked!
May be, I wasn’t well baked at all;
Or baked too much: suff’red a fall!
Perhaps, the hearth was not quite hot;
Perhaps, it was my own dear fault.
How do I serve Thee still? I muse;
Though handicapped, could Thou me use?
Could Thou recast my misshap’n form,
So that I can most well perform?
Could thou alter my bizarre look,
Before people think I’m a spook?
Or will I be trampled by men,
Even before I say, ‘Amen! ’
Whatev’r my fate turns out to be,
Let me serve Thee most happily!
May be, I can’t be thine pot sought;
Though pot I am, I am Thine pot!
Though pot I am, I am Thine pot!
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christopher, Mr. Christopher
Written by dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by dennis deyoung
I remember christopher
Such a man
So brave and tall
He took the baby jesus
In his arms
Across the waterfall
People cried, "he's holy!
He's a saint not a man!"
All at once it was written
In the book of the land
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
There was mary margaret
A christian lady
Dressed in black
She believed st. christopher
Helped her find
A way back
She told him all her secrets
And the dreams of her years
So when they took that saint away
All that's left were her tears
Mary cried "they're crazy!
The world is changing too fast!"
It was then she discovered
That her faith couldn't last
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
Christopher, mr. christopher
Why won't they leave you alone?
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Father In Heaven
Oh fools and slow of hart,
Don't you know that there is a Father in heaven? !
But the love of many had drawn cold and,
My ink will flow to teach many.
I am as strong as an iron on this earth of sin and,
I don't need signs to believe in the truth;
For, Yahweh is my light and my salvation.
Feet and toes as a potter's clay,
Hands and fingers as a poet's ink,
Remember the Saviour's words like,
He who has the truth to hare with.
Of the peoples, multitudes, nation and tongues;
A Father is in heven for us to loook upon;
But our lives do fade away like the fragments of pottery.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pomona I Remember You.
Pomona,
Your persona
Lost
In the orchards of time.
Kisses of lemon and lime
Fizz in summertime.
Your sun
Beams
Strawberrys and creams.
My Desdimona
Steams
In jealousy.
I know Pomona,
She will leave me
With love
From the vine.
Pomona
That forbidden apple
Of mine.
Goddess true.
Sings through the trees.
Clings to the breeze.
With citrus hue.
Sweeter than
Morning dew.
Kevin East.
poem by Kevin East
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the spirit of Rumi - 29
O Caliphs of the world
who have executed so many saints
for daring to say that ‘I am God within myself’ –
If you yourselves are not God within yourselves,
then who are you to pronounce punishment
upon any other man?
And now, every man who carries
a sword, a dagger, bomb or gun
would think himself a Caliph,
messenger of the Lord…
how wrong they are.
Yet Allah, the great, the merciful beyond our understanding,
allows them to live on after their victims’ death - gives
a little time to know themselves
as the wheel of the potter, Destiny, turns for them,
before they return to Him
as clay to be reshaped in the Potter’s hands
or dry and crumble into dust.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Museum of Nothing
Although the museum had nothing on exhibit...
The people not believing this,
Would still come in droves to visit.
They would stand in line to wait.
And pay their fee to gain entry.
And inquire, once inside...
Why was nothing there,
To sustain them with pride.
And from room to vacant room,
They walked behind the tour guide!
So the board of directors,
Decided to please them all.
And changed the name of the museum!
The museum was renamed,
The Museum of Nothing.
And people came in the Winter,
Spring, Summer and Fall.
And 'nothing' it was affectionately called.
Although the museum had nothing on exhibit...
The people not believing this,
Would still come in droves to visit.
They would stand in line to wait.
And pay their fee to gain entry.
Some adjusting to the nothingness.
While others stood for hours,
Just to stare as if in disbelief.
Addicted to anything said to them.
And clearly easy to deceive.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What garlic is to salad, insanity is to art.
quote by Augustus Saint-Gaudens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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More Amazing Than The Crucifixion
More amazing that the crucifixion
was, of course, the holocaust.
That’s why some believe it’s fiction,
view Jew-haters have endorsed.
Sad fact is that truly it
occurred––six million crucified,
and not just one. Though Holy Writ
does not include them by his side,
Chagall has done this. From the cross
the Christ looks sadly down, an SS-man
observing bloody feet, a boss
who’ll claim he was a minor yes-man
to that atrocity we see
on Golgotha has taken place;
he never will confess that he
deserves great blame. The Jewish race
survived this SS-man’s attack
whose evil has been called banal,
confusing merely white and black!
confusion not one Marc Chagall
made showing cruelty to Christ
who’s cringing on the cross. Some think
they know why he was sacrificed.
I from such explanations shrink,
confronted by the genocide
of all the millions who were killed
with gas used like a pesticide
by people more than Romans skilled
in culture and humanity,
some God-believers, even, whose
world-views saw no profanity
in crucifixion of the Jews.
Inspired by an article by Randy Kennedy in the NYT on January 2,2010, describing the purchase of a Chagall gouache depicting the crucifixion by the London:
The London Jewish Museum of Art is a scrappy young institution, created in 2001 and camped in rented space in St. John’s Wood, off the beaten track of London’s art world. But over the last nine years the museum has been diligently trying to forge a reputation for itself, adding more than 100 works to an already substantial collection that grew out of that of the Ben Uri Gallery, a Jewish artists’ society founded in London in 1915. So when David Glasser, one of the museum’s chairmen, was perusing a Paris auction catalog a few months ago, he found it hard to believe what he saw: a previously unknown 1945 gouache by Marc Chagall. It was one of a small group of images Chagall made in direct response to the Holocaust, after he and his wife had fled France in 1941, after the German occupation and after he had begun to learn the details of the Nazi atrocities. The gouache on heavy paper, which Chagall signed and titled himself lightly with a pencil in Russian — “Apocalypse in Lilac, Capriccio” — employs one of his familiar motifs, an image of a crucified Jesus, which he used as a metaphor for persecuted Jewry. But this crucifixion, painted in New York, where Chagall settled for several years, is one of the most brutal and disturbing ever created by an artist primarily known for his brightly colored folkloric visions. “Apocalypse” shows a naked Christ screaming at a Nazi storm trooper below the cross, who has a backwards swastika on his arm, a Hitler-like mustache and a serpentine tail. Another small figure can be seen crucified and a second being hanged, and a man appears to be poised to stab a child. A damaged, upside-down clock falls from the sky. The darkness and directness of the work may have been a response not only to the war but also to the death of Chagall’s wife, Bella, a year earlier from a viral infection that might have been treated if not for wartime medicine shortages….
And beginning on Thursday, it will go on public display for the first time, at the Osborne Samuel gallery in Mayfair, before moving into the museum’s permanent collection at the end of the month. In going on view, it will become another of the notable publicly exhibited examples of Chagall’s wartime imagery, like the “Yellow Crucifixion” from 1943, at the Georges Pompidou Center, and the “White Crucifixion” from 1938 at the Art Institute of Chicago. “Although in many of his works Chagall had reacted to events in Germany, he usually did not depict them but used symbols — such as the crucifixion, a Jew holding a Torah, a mother protecting her child or a falling angel — to suggest what was happening there, ” writes Ziva Amishai-Maisels, a Chagall scholar and professor emeritus at Hebrew University of Jerusalem, in a catalog to accompany the exhibition of the painting. “Although he still used some of these symbols in ‘Apocalypse, ’ he combined them with the reality of the Holocaust in a manner that was very rare in his work. This and the way he depicted the conflict between the Nazi and the naked Christ make this a unique work.” Ms. Baron, of the Art Fund, agreed. “I think it is really a tremendous coup, ” she said, “to get it for this collection and for the country.”
1/2/10
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tough Streets Of Chicago
Tough streets of Chicago, you made me who I am.
Tough streets of Chicago, for me you had a plan.
You forced me to observe, what kids my age did not.
You taught me to look and see, always looking for a plot.
You taught me to react, and kept me on my toes.
You taught me to examine, the actions of my foes.
You forced me to react, in situations dire.
You made sure I would function, when I came under fire.
You made sure I was tough, made sure I'd understand,
the skills that I would need, when I joined uncle Sam.
Tough streets of Chicago, I almost went insane.
Tough streets of Chicago, you caused me so much pain.
You made me grow up fast, always dodging death.
You made me run from danger, could hardly catch my breath.
You took most of my friends, why, I'll never understand.
You made it possible to count, all my friends on one hand.
You took them in their teens, you took them very young.
You took them way before, to live they had begun.
Tough streets of Chicago, my tour is almost up.
Tough streets of Chicago, with your gangster posting up.
Tough streets of Chicago, can't get you off my mind.
Tough streets of Chicago, I miss those streets of mine.
Tough streets of Chicago...............................
poem by Rico Avila
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3
(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)
Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”
“I’m sure he will. Grace.”
“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”
“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”
Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.
“Do come in Mr Latimer.”
Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.
“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”
“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”
“Unfortunately, Mr Potter prefers to eat alone. You will meet him later. I have told him you are coming and h I looking forward to meeting you.” Grace replied and brought forward the tray if scones. “Please help yourself Charles.”
Charles waited until the sisters were seated before starting.
“I think these are your best scones, Grace.”
“Thank you Charlotte.”
“I will second that. These are best scones I’ve ever tasted. I hope that Mr Potter will appreciate them.”
“I’m sure he will.” Grace replied and watched with satisfaction as the scones disappeared from the plate.
“Another cup of tea Charles? ” Charlotte asked holding the teapot poised.
“Thank you.”
As Charlotte poured out the tea, Grace collected the dishes from the table. “While Charlotte and I do the washing up you sit and enjoy your tea.”
“What about Mr Potter? ”
“We’ll collect his dishes later.”
“Charles drank his tea slowly. He wondered how he could thank the two women. He would have to think of a way later.
Grace and Charlotte smiled and nodded to one another. Mr Potter would enjoy Charles. They dried their hands and placed the dishes into the cupboard.
“I see you have almost drunk your tea. I presume you would like to see Mr Potter now? ”
“Yes please.”
“If you will follow us.”
Charles followed the sisters out of the room and into the garden.
“Unfortunately we have only one pair of stairs leading to the basement.”
“Basement? ”
“Yes, Mr Potter is not one for coming into the house. He is a bit eccentric.”
“Oh.”
2Grace dear, would you put the light on? You will have to watch the bottom step Charles. It can be a bit slippery at times.”
“Aren’t you ladies coming down? ”
“No. Mr Potter does not like women that much. “She said and smiled. “I will close the door behind you.”
Charles descended the stairs. A peculiar stench rose around him. Just as he put his foot on the bottom step, it tilted and he fell forward.
Charlotte heard the splash followed by the thrashing of water. She closed the storm door and called to Grace to switch the light off. Grace joined her there a few moments later.
“How did Mr Potter greet Charles? ”
“His usually noisy self. I do not understand why crocodiles have to make so much noise when they eat. At least with Charles he won’t get indigestion”
8-9 September 1987
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Museum Of Idiots
They built this whole neighborhood out of wood, out of wood.
I guess I'll still be around when they burn, burn it down.
I will be standing around when they burn it down.
Here in the Museum of Idiots.
Honey, I'm there when you need me, please believe me, please believe me.
I'll still be right where you left me, if you manage to forget me.
Where we met is where you may forget.
Here in the Museum of Idiots.
If you and I had any brains, we wouldn't be in this place.
Chop me up into pieces if it pleases, if it pleases.
And when the chopping is through, every piece will say, "I love you."
Every piece of me will say "I love you."
Here in the Museum of Idiots.
Every piece of me will say "I love you, you you"
Here in the Museum of Idiots.
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Souvenirs
Souvenirs
By: vince melamed, danny okeefe
1993
Someone wants a piece of you
Never let em pay
What you do not give them
Time takes anyway
Had I known what love is worth
I could have saved the tears
Might have come in handy
Like souvenirs
I didnt see her comin
til my head turned in surprise
Thinking I must know her
But it was her thin disguise
She padded up her innocence
And tightly cinched her fears
But she saved a little room
For souvenirs
I still go to pieces
But I dont go as often
Placeless times in space
Where all the edges soften
She took me away
Where I couldnt send her
I knew that she would leave me
Something to remember
I wanted more than one
Until I found the one I wanted
Her memories are ghosts now
Though Im still pretty haunted
What we gave each other
Aint exactly clear
Probably comes under the heading
Of souvenirs
Pieces, bits, and pieces
Add up through the years
Ive collected a small fortune
In souvenirs
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Prajapati or prajapita
Can potter ever slaughter?
His own work as creator
He is called father of mankind
And go on making shapes of different kind
He is also known as clay maker
Another name given for him as "prajapita"* or creator
As almighty creates entire human race
You may find with him pots of different shapes
Not all the pots survive
As not all the children live
In this world and meet the fate
Some may come early and some may come late
You will not find single person of same appearance
Even if found it will be one in million chance
You can never find identical nose and face
Where as there is limited scope to make it from base
How can we forget our own creator?
Who has given us everything as our real mentor?
If all his creations survive successfully
Then there won't be any place left to love peacefully
Many pots break during process
Many break while finding access
Yet some of them come out to find the world
Remind us of power that has been lying in his fold
Not only he is known for his creative work
But exclaimed for exemplary show pieces work
His hand moves without any measurement
To be precise and near to precision instrument
I love to praise his ability to shape
He has no thesis or roads on the map
It is purely human instinct to perfection
The art pieces speak of excellent action
* Prajapati or prajapita…. The father of human race
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The potter and the dancer
A potter made pots,
which are there after the potter has worked.
A dancer did dance,
which is not there after the dancer has worked.
God is a dancer,
Who dances from where things vibrate.
God isn't a potter
To create things and be away from it.
13.07.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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