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Poetry
Glassblower
By Missinginaction
18 October 2005
...

Furnace accents in his dyed ponytail, the silver-sleeved gaffer breathes life
into  his gather-tipped posthorn, pendulums it to stir and stretch 
another glowing soda-sand foetus into growth,
accosts the glare of the glory-hole  for just enough heat to spin  the magic:
he stands, glances down at   pale legs and worn trainers
stares jaded through the window at the winter tourist traffic
and on out into next weekend's dream-drama
like a checkout assistant whose flat look crawls over  your shoulder,
while he spins and he breathes and he spins the pipe intimately.
 
From the viewing gallery, worshippers gaze diminished, deskilled, 
looking down into the heated bear-pit where the half-dressed heroes prowl 
and dance  intuitively from box furnace to gaffer's chair,
forming the gather in the dripping wet cherrywood block
rolling the raw glow into life.
 
As the golden parison inflates and blooms,
as the pipe rolls and returns across the marver,
as the rings are spun on, as the colours are  changing,
as soaked pads of last week's Guardian polish and shape,
the gaffer never rests, a tattooed Tantalus,
chair to glory hole to chair, rolling,  measuring, rolling, breathing, rolling,
a squirt from the airline,  a polish from the pads, rolling,
conformity confirmed by  practised eye through  didymium lens.
 
Split-second collusive, the mate lines up his punty spot on,
the gaffer steadies it dead-centre with the pucellas
and together they roll and pierce the already brittling orb, 
transfer it from pipe to punty, shear away and reshape the neck,
and check the spec with a final flourish of the dividers:
time to crack off the work.
 
Light chipchop around the neck then a single meaty tap a foot up the punty
and the perfect dome drops away, sits ready for its cooling therapy in the lehr.

Even as the door closes the next gather is being rolled, cajoled,
the production line tango resumes.
 
For days the images sear across your mind,
the metamorphosis sits brooding:
ponder the shift from fusion to fragility,
from shapeless sand to perfect artefact.
 

Reviews

Written by jean.day (2279 comments posted) 29th October 2005
What a description poem this is. I love your choice of words. Having been one of those in the gallery looking down on the glassblowers, I can appreciate what you are saying. You bring your glassblower to life. I really enjoyed it.

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