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I took my first pottery throwing class last night and it reminded me of this olde thing...

Verse-A-Tile Co.
(We Aim To Please!)

Hope squared the flattened red clay,
grabbed another mud ball and repeated
the act, using the sturdy, round stick
to smash down and mold the pliant
doughy earth. Grabbing a utensil
that looked like half a picture frame,
she straightened the edges, pointed
the corners and put this tile
next to its twin.
Reaching for the sharp tool used
to inscribe the tiles, Hope scratched
letters into the drying clay. Crack
topped mountains peeled up on either side
of the tiny canyons she formed till both
red squares were filled with words.

Sighing and straightening up from her
hunch over the table, Hope gazed at the
company logo hanging on the wall,
(We Aim To Please!), and felt
a part of something bigger than
herself and the ruts carved in the clay.
The tiles could be dropped and broken
but the verses written on them could
never be erased once even one customer
read them. She lifted them with
care and placed them into the oven
where only the best survived the
scrutiny of the omniscient heat.

I thought I was back in ancient Egypt observing the motions of a pre-paprys scribe.
Maybe hope made a difference.

Great piece A.A.

Matj

Well, I did discover the other night there is something viscerally anachronistic about getting your hands on a lump of cool, wet clay and shaping it on a wheel; like it was the stuff of museums and archeological digs and my ancestors, whoever they may be, yet present at the same time.

But alas, none of that was predicted in this poem at the time it was written. And yes, thanks for picking up on my character's name (Hope) being multi-faceted. It was my attempt at an extended metaphor about writing and not really about clay at all.

thanks,
Laurie