Mi Se – the mysterious
colour.
The crackle in the glaze is no accident and would have taken
days to cool,
days to complete the fine contour lines through the dour
iron-green,
gently clinking in the quiet of the potter’s store as
another living crack migrated
across the surface, the feathers of the phoenix merging with
twinning leaves.
When ready these pieces would be passed on in secret,
allowing the olive grey
celadon to become legendary in the dark of the Emperor’s
hoard, the final pieces
remaining underground for 1000 years, held by Monks who locked the Buddha’s
finger bone in with them after it had rolled from the cleansing fire to rest at their feet.
Now in the museum of that cache are displayed many fakes in
the cases alongside the true
of both bone and bowl, but the true ones can be told by their nature,
even if at first sight
the porcelain seems
plump and unstately and the bone small and mean.
Always the truth is told by nature when time is taken to
look.
Just wonderful. I adore it. Last line - isn't that the truth!
ReplyDeleteBeautiful poem.
ReplyDelete