The Potter

This is the first time I’ve ever shared my poetry with anyone. It is nerve-wracking to put myself out here like this (I’ve been sitting at my computer for 30 minutes debating on whether to hit “Publish” or not), but practice is the only way for it to improve. I am looking forward to the day when posting a poem doesn’t require so much bravery.

In the pottery studio, she works, quietly

hunched over the slippery clay that smells like cold dirt

and will soon, under her gentle touch, be a

masterpiece. Patiently she works, alert


and listening to the potters’ gossip around her,

but never interjecting with a thoughtless word

that she may soon regret. She listens

at her wheel, nothing said but everything heard.


Lumpy bowls perform pirouettes as these potters’

words patter on, complaining about life.

God, how I hate doctors­. The rest all chime in instant

Agreement—all but the doctor’s patient wife.


They think she is shy, too insecure to interject, but

as she guides the clay—up, out, further up, in—

she is wise. She keeps dignified silence and holds

the half-made vase in her clay-caked hands, forming it as it spins.


6 thoughts on “The Potter”

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