A Poem for National Poetry Day 2020 on October 1st.
The potter sits at his spinning wheel
hands slippery with water and clay.
Thumbs dig deep as his fingers feel
a bowl curling up on the way.
It pleases him to see its form,
with its wafer thin shape at the edge,
it’s everyday life, to him it’s the norm,
a finished and fine featheredge.
A slip of the hand, the work is a ruin
returned to a pottage of clay.
Fear not, he thinks, I know what I’m doing,
there’s plenty more time in the day.
The clay, is it just like a person?
Fragile and easily damaged?
Ruined by one stupid action,
left as a wreck if mismanaged.
But that’s not the end of the story,
like clay, we can all be reformed.
Remoulded, rejiggered more finely
I know, I’m reliably informed.
It says so quite plain in the bible
Jeremiah, in chapter eighteen
When broken and down we are liable
Be made best that we’ve ever been.
©joseph r mason 2020
Photo by Gustavo Fring on Pexels.com
At the Potter’s House
18 This is the word that came to Jeremiah from the Lord: 2 “Go down to the potter’s house, and there I will give you my message.” 3 So I went down to the potter’s house, and I saw him working at the wheel. 4 But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.
Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.®