today i trembled thinking about making pottery as i have never trembled at the thought of writing poetry.
that to sit at a table to write always felt necessary
as sitting at the wheel feels necessary
but that with writing, there is always a weight
a weight that is different from the heft of a
new ball of clay, waiting to find form
a weight that pulls at old pains trying
to make them into beauty
make what hurts into something beautiful
or just make
something beautiful
always,
beauty,
always,
art,
but what kind,
what form,
which is the
one
.
.
.
.
.
.
i feel as though
i have betrayed
the poet
.
.
.
.
.
.
what do you do when
who you are makes
you question who
you are
.
.
.
.
.
.
try hard
at all
of it
try hard
realize
it is all
art
and it is
all you
and you are
allowed
you
always
in whatever
form.
narinda heng 