Ann Hunter on sun 16 jul 00
I am sending the poem below in response to the thread of pottery
poetry even though it does not probably fit the original request for
poems to use in a service. Perhaps others will respond with unusual
experiences in their clay lives, or more poems. I am certainly
enjoying the poems myself.
A man phoned the studio to say that his father had died and his
mother had the idea she wanted an impression of her late husband's
hands. Next day the whole family came to the studio and I followed
them to the funeral home, laden with a towel and shallow boxes of
soft clay. I made the impressions, cast them in hydrostone, and had
bookends made for her. It was really strange, but I couldn't turn it
down. This was my Christmas card poem two years ago.
Touchstone
I never laid eyes on him until
I touched his hands in coffin, still,
Where he was stiffly laid to rest
in nicest Sunday suit of blue.
His friend and lover of fifty years,
to keep the memory of his hands,
the widow requested I cast in clay,
preserving touch, in terra pax.
His son would hold the father's hand
as I pressed a preview of the earth
about to fold the man entire,
at least his earthly form, within.
The fearlessness of the bereft
was touching, that they let me join,
a stranger amid their kin and friends,
to gather a record so intimate.
The widow hugged me when I left.
Thanks be for those who dare to touch.
Not much a toucher, I; sometimes
too slow to even shake a hand.
Nor hugger; asking questions in
my head, I've watched, too late,
the moment go. Praise be for those
who do not wait.
Those a little touched can touch
with ease. In having stepped outside
the maze of social interaction,
they skip the ruse of hiding truth.
Kind friends and kith whose fingerprints
do mold my spirit's shape and pose,
praise be for all of those.
How did he use his hands? I asked
the widow. Tinkering with short wave talk.
Wave lapping wave; webs unseen, spun
and touching others. A toucher, truth
be told. Thanks be for such.
-Ann Hunter
Gayle Bair on tue 18 jul 00
Ann,
Thank you for sharing that wonderful poem
it is beautiful.
My dad also used his hands to fix and
create things. As my dad lie dying my sister
mentioned several times what wonderful hands
he had. I wish I had thought of that.
Gayle Bair-Bainbridge Island WA
>snip
A man phoned the studio to say that his father had died and his
mother had the idea she wanted an impression of her late husband's
hands.
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