One day, our teacher demonstrated the steps to use the potter's wheel. Immediately, I was determined to master this strange beautiful practice. Other classmates and I signed up for a time to work. When my turn came, I took my humble imperfect balls of clay and set them by the strange contraption. I sat down and slammed one of the lumps on the wheel. With help, I timidly completed the first steps in the process.
This isn't so bad, I thought, now all I have to do is center it.
The wheel spun, faster and faster
in a hypothesizing swirl of metal and earth.
I locked my thumbs together,
nervously licked my lips,
then thrust my hands onto the ball of clay.
The friction warmed my fingers
and the the clay pressed with
an
uneven
rhythm,
as if to say
fix me,
shape me.
I pushed back even harder
hoping this would help
my thumbs became unglued and my elbows left my sides.
The clay flew off the base.
Inwardly, I cried.
Then my turn was up, but I knew I could try again.
So I signed up for a different time,
however the same thing happened again.
The amount of classmates started to thin.
I wondered if my determination had pressed me too far
My curiosity tugged, and it was to late to turn back
But, I was hypnotized already
So I headed back
With both hate and love
I sat at the potter's wheel
This time with a teacher
With some coaxing, I did the first few steps
But when it came to centering
I asked her to do the rest
After that step was over
I locked my thumbs again
With gritted teeth I pushed and pulled
This time, something began to unfold
I could feel the piece inside
calling out for me to try
press here
lighter fingers
almost there
At the end I gently squeezed the top
The clay twisted
But not in the way I expected
Oh well, I thought
It's now a pitcher
I made a little handle
and painted it delicately
My little porcelain
was the piece that
changed my life
No more with hate
did I stare at the potter's wheel
I had found a new love
This isn't so bad, I thought, now all I have to do is center it.
The wheel spun, faster and faster
in a hypothesizing swirl of metal and earth.
I locked my thumbs together,
nervously licked my lips,
then thrust my hands onto the ball of clay.
The friction warmed my fingers
and the the clay pressed with
an
uneven
rhythm,
as if to say
fix me,
shape me.
I pushed back even harder
hoping this would help
my thumbs became unglued and my elbows left my sides.
The clay flew off the base.
Inwardly, I cried.
Then my turn was up, but I knew I could try again.
So I signed up for a different time,
however the same thing happened again.
The amount of classmates started to thin.
I wondered if my determination had pressed me too far
My curiosity tugged, and it was to late to turn back
But, I was hypnotized already
So I headed back
With both hate and love
I sat at the potter's wheel
This time with a teacher
With some coaxing, I did the first few steps
But when it came to centering
I asked her to do the rest
After that step was over
I locked my thumbs again
With gritted teeth I pushed and pulled
This time, something began to unfold
I could feel the piece inside
calling out for me to try
press here
lighter fingers
almost there
At the end I gently squeezed the top
The clay twisted
But not in the way I expected
Oh well, I thought
It's now a pitcher
I made a little handle
and painted it delicately
My little porcelain
was the piece that
changed my life
No more with hate
did I stare at the potter's wheel
I had found a new love