Alfred Corn-I
Out Behind the Kiln
A dump, a graveyard,
a midden for so much
crockery the potter
decided to shed, ideas that didn’t quite
shape up in the throw—plate,
bowl, cup, figurine—or some
that got themselves chipped just
after the glaze hardened.
Pine needles released
from the permanent sighing
overhead year after productive
year have accumulated, mulching
the discards in, solid colors,
corrugations, calligraphic fragments:
though left in pieces, a readable
summary of evolving skills.
Some items, to all appearances,
are whole—like the one earthenware
Buddha, a robed plumpness seated,
unhindered and at ease. That lidded gaze
lightens every crackup it takes in—
all of them in his mind nonexistent,
so much painted illusion. Illusion, and yet
a waste, a waste land, empty and broken.
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