Sunday, February 10, 2008

After burners

Cold kiln.
No poems fit; maybe some will later.


lowenkopf said...

shots such as these provide their own poetry.

R.L. Bourges said...

lori, I picture tiny white clay pots being placed in these on long wooden pizza paddles
(but the chopping of the kindling must be just gruesome, if you ask me)

Dale said...

Two words is a little short, but I think "cold kiln" qualifies as a poem, actually.

MB said...

Hm. I read it as a nine-word poem.

Larry said...

Sleeping orifices... I can just imagine them glowing orange and belching flames!

Unknown said...


These reminded me of severed robot heads vindictively nailed to the fortress wall by the sadistic victor of the 25th-century automated war.

Either I need more coffee, or less.

neilornstein said...

Cold Kiln.
No poems fit;maybe some will later.

Not so very long ago
when your strong hands
kneaded my warm clay;
when your wheel spun me
and I dizzily took
whatever shape
your fancy required.

When I glowed red and my
eyes glazed over with pleasure.

All done now. Just ash,
a fine grey ash and unpaid fuel bills.

Cold kiln. No poems fit.

Granny J said...

I rather like David's fancy. Very fine patterns.

Anonymous said...

Herodotus, "If you will pay me for my song, O potters"?