Clay Pots

Thanks to whomever took this

The prose just isn't hitting the page right now.  Every time I sit down to write, I'm working on poems.  Some satire, some reflection, some catharsis.  It's a whole new form of expression that I'm sorry to have ignored for so long.

Finding a fitting metaphor is a real treat when writing poetry.  The best ones build themselves - their meanings extend outward as the writing continues, beyond the scope of what you expect them to explain.

I went through five drafts of this poem, including a full rewrite, but the metaphor did most of the hard work.  It's a piece about my relationship with my younger sister, who turned 21 in September (!?).  I sent it to her about a month after her birthday, mostly because I didn't know what I wanted it to say.  It still doesn't say most of what it should, which would sound like an extension of this:

"Hey, I know I've been a pretty difficult big brother most of your life, and I'm sorry for that.  Even though our relationship has been challenging, you're my sister and I love you."

It should not take 21 years to say that, but that's how long it took me.  Maybe I just needed to find the right way to say it.  Maybe I'll stick with this poetry thing a while longer.

Clay Pots

One of us must have been adopted

And it was probably you

Because I have dad’s voice and mom’s hazel eyes

And her brother’s brown hair

Though luckily neither of us inherited

Their unbearable senses of humor

But we both got

Grandpa’s gritty stubbornness       

As kids it was like

Two rough ceramic pots rubbing

Grinding on contact

Chipping and dulling one another

But I was older and taller

So I raised your self-esteem up over my head

And then dropped it

And not by accident.

Just to see how many shards

You’d make when you shattered

Before I learned to know my anger

Feeling bigger was all that mattered

Like when I used to call you stupid

For not knowing all 50 states

I think I teased you into learning them

Sculpting you with childish hate            

But I’m learning

That you are not ceramic

Because clay doesn’t grow stronger

Doesn’t unbreak

You are not solid and delicate

But liquid and opaque

You are not clay but ink

My mistake

Has been to think

That every time I knocked you over

You crumbled beneath your brother

But you just spilled a little bit

Then stubbornly recovered

Pouring ink

Forming blots

That from a distance

Look a little bit like courage

And a lot like persistence

And from above they look like confidence

And up close they look like art

And I

Am finally learning

How to appreciate art

I’m finally learning

To handle ink when it’s wet

That’s why this poem reads like tribute

But still tastes like regret

And it would sound like an apology

If my pen was not so weak

But at least now I’m learning

How to make ink speak

It’s been two weeks

Since you turned 21

This poem started as a gift

Though the ribbons have come undone

Like all our past attempts to change our friendship’s tack

Some bowls are made to fit

And others just don’t stack

But I’m learning

That love is not a sequence

Of broad artistic gestures

It’s not one perfect sketch

Or a collage of silk and feathers

It’s fraying leather

It’s ice sculptures melting

And then getting out the mop

It’s knowing how fast to spin the wheel

And knowing when to stop

It’s sloppy

It’s crumpled drafts and crossed-out lines

It’s chalk on a sidewalk

And pastels that dull with time

I’m learning that love

Has no design

And that’s fine

Maybe there’s no blueprint

On how to be a good big brother

But I promise

For the next 21 years

I’ll try to be less stubborn