Pottery

Poetry sounded and sometimes  looked
Like pottery, on  potter's wheel and off it
Occupying space,one on other, in stack
Like many 0's making it big  on the night.
The pots looked like onion rings in cafe
But had many dark nights hid in them.

Poet Wislawa was a potter par excellence
With her pots stacked one upon the other
That boasted of  much darkness in them.

But what is poetry many have asked her
Many shaky answers have been given
To this question, I don't know,  don't know,
 But hold on to it like a sustaining railing,
A shaky answer to a mere railing question.

We hold on to our  railing as  we look down
Dizzily into the eternity we have passed
Or look up to the eternity we are to pass.

Our  potter's wheel shall go on in our yard.
Our own pots shall stack one on the other
With dark air hid in them of a poet's nights
Until  the long bamboo stick breaks the pots
And turns them back to the earth they were.

(Remembering Nobel Prize winner Polish Poet Wislawa Szymborska who passed away last month at the age of 88)

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