A Poem by Thomas Thornburg
(for Manisha)
John Peterson the potter’s throwing
Pots in his shop; the turning day
Beholds him at the world’s fairs showing
His canny cups in crafted clay.
Midsummer and in solsticed snows
John Peterson the potter throws
Visions before him there and births
Objects of art from pummeled earth.
John Peterson with hands of steel
Labors before the turning wheel
Reflecting there in wild surmise
The cosmos in his eyes.
John Peterson the potter, once,
Circling in a pool of light,
Performed his art in spangled tights,
Quite oddy-nocky at the nonce.
Shall we of love and earth begot,
To earth returned here, all unwrought,
Lie broken by the wheel, forgotten?
NO, poet, we will not.
Bozeman, Montana
December 1, 2003
3 responses so far ↓
1 Kraines // Apr 27, 2008 at 11:59 am
Thomas,
I enjoyed this poem very much.
Thank you.
Kathy
2 jgoggin // Apr 27, 2008 at 1:20 pm
Most excellent. Thank you.
3 Stan // Apr 27, 2008 at 11:21 pm
John Peterson, I learned from some google searching, is or was a potter in Muncie, Indiana.
Also, I recalled John Donne’s “Batter My Heart, Three-Personed God” although it is God in action there, and he is a tinker.
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