Friday, 8 May 2015

FEET OF CLAY

In some part of me I must believe
nothing can be broken.
What else explains this carelessness?

It was the tiniest clay pot
made for seeds and
the tiniest tree.

I am manifesting it whole
in this poem, so it knows
it was loved the way it was

but also the way it is
now, exposed innards,
cracked through.

Someone will put you together,
I tell the flower pot, and myself.
Mostly, I tell myself.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2015

posted for dverse poets, open link night





images of kettle's yard, cambridge

8 comments:

Mary said...

I think there is some part of all of us that likes to believe that everything, no matter what, can be put back together.....

Roslyn Ross said...

There is a tenderness to this, despite the presence of wounds.

Abhra said...

First of all - I love the look of your blog - that header is amazing.

In your piece you build a very soft, touchy and intimate moment - that is simply amazing.

Marcoantonio Arellano said...

yes, there's tenderness and softness in the darkest center if one looks at it knowing that in the center of this darkness there is light.

wonderful share

Thotpurge said...

A very poignant tone.. that reaches out to the reader.

brudberg said...

The imagery of that little pot is such a big image for something much larger...

hyperCRYPTICal said...

Tender words of hope. I do so hope (for you)that you may be put together.
Anna :o]

Sherry Blue Sky said...

So poignant and lovely. And what serene rooms in the photos. I especially love the circular rocks....what a cool idea!

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