Leong Liew Geok (b. 1947)
SELECTED POEMS
The Potter
The potter dreams of shapes he hasn't made:
Awesome, curvaceous, strong and lean,
Forms that dance and call for light from shade.Remembering earth, the wild grit of his trade,
The luck of clay, of heat-glazed crystalline,
The potter yearns for shapes he hasn't made.Whole debts to craft, can they be paid
Out from his drizzling age, arch fiend?
Raw forms will not play long in light or shade.The pots he throws, now small and staid,
Yet pull arthritic fingers, their spasms keen
And sharp. The potter lies with shapes he hasn't made.To clay he clings; his hopes will fade
And he must stop, or stay within his means
Instead of shadow-boxing pots of light and shade:Bowls, plates, jars, vases—all parade
To taunt their would-be maker, light unseen
By us. The potter dies, shapes he might have made
Unborn, light withdrawn by dark receding shade.
by Leong Liew Geok
from Women Without Men (2000)
