Gather ten fistfuls of fine sand.
Bring them to the warehouse that you pass
on weekend evenings, in which masked figures
blow angry blue flames.
They’ll boil that sand,
cup the liquid glass like water,
and breathe into it so that it expands and spins,
a crystalline lung preparing for the possibilities
of shape and function.
"breathe into it so that it expands and spins,
ReplyDeletea crystalline lung preparing for the possibilities"
nice work..
As a former glassblower (in what seems like a former life) I really appreciate this poem. You got it right.
ReplyDeletevery nice - I have a glass blower two blocks away from me who once let my young children blow a christmas ornament - even if I didn't that that memory to enhance your words, I still would have like it very much.
ReplyDeleteI have several times wished I could see the picture behind the poem but in this case I've come to the poem immediately after watching Oscar and Lucinda, with its great glass blowing scenes. A wonderful evocation of the process.
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