The Po Po Project
some poems inspired by throwing our first pots....

The wet piece of earth sitting on the wheel
waiting to be made into something beautiful.
How can I do this?
Will its feelings be hurt
if it's not made into something beautiful?
I wet my hands and wet the clay.
Slowly the wheel starts to turn.
My hands are anxious and waiting to create.
The clay so smooth, so delicate.
One mistake and it could all be over.
One try isn't enough, another attempt is needed.
The piece of clay sits there waiting.
I sit there wondering.
Finally, I see the shape forming.
The piece of clay sits there waiting.
I sit there wondering.
Finally, I see the shape forming,
the piece of art is working with me.
It realizes it's going to be made.
I put my hands on the inside of the moist clay
pulling up gently, but firmly
right before my eyes, it's forming
a small vase, a new creation.
The clay looks at me.
I give it the finishing touches,
smooth the edges, round the sides.
It's pretty, it's different.
The reborn piece of earth
has been changed for the better.
What a good feeling it is!
Amber Wiebelhaus

My Clay Blob

The blob of clay
grey, ugly and round
the blob may turn
into something.
We threw it on the wheel.
Around, around, around
it goes. You can
hardly hold onto it.
Wow! it actually looks
like something, maybe
a bowl? My hands are
full of wet goopy clay.
Now it looks like a
bowl. my clothes are full
of clay but I am happy
with my first creation
on the wheel. Wow! that
blob can be something!
Nikki Feucht

Gray

From chunk to ball
I saw my gray clay change
as I pounded it with such force.
Harder! Harder! my teacher said.
Up for new things I tried my best
even though I know
I am no good at this pottery stuff

My hands took a dip
in the bucket of water.
Splish. Splash.
Slap!
They sucked onto the spinning gray ball
with a gentle force they took control
pushing slightly so my gray ball changed.
pain grew on the right side of my hand.
Scraping from the bat
where my clay made its home.

Raising my hand I increased the height
of my project. It now towered
over the wheel.
Thrusting the clay down
I managed to regain the level
I wanted my project to be.
The gray ball was actually something.
A few more drips from my teacher
helped to smooth it out.

What I had was a pot
that I did all by myself.
A little help from my teacher
but little nonetheless.
I came out a winner in a game
where I had no experience.
My gray clay turned into artwork
and I turned into an artist.
Ashley Davis

When Creating Pottery

There's no greater feeling
than that of creation.
It comes from my mind
and not through my hands.

Take what's beneath me.
Revolve in a constant cycle.
It becomes one's self,
only to stop when pleased.

There's no ending too soon,
for soon is never ending.
It comes from inside,
where pleasure's within.

Only when I'm creating
am I venerable to critics.
But there's no greater feeling
than that of creation.
Mike Held

Squishing slimily between my fingers
Squashing all over my clothes and hair
Feeling like a little kid making dirt cake again
only with seething clay
Under my nails
All over the floor
Trying to center that beast was
merely impossible
Two people had to come and help
It was going great
Then I wrecked it
I asked my helper how to fix it
He said he'd never had one that bad
so he didn't know
Feeling unaccomplished
but had fun
I look at my sad little pot
slightly resembling a seashell
Maybe I did accomplish a mini-masterpiece
for all to see
Alisha Neu