Mud Babies From Biloxi Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

The southern clay is fit for turning
So this artist commence the fires to burning.
Now pottery was a dime a dozen in the store
Which meant that there had to be quality and more.

As he milled the clay to the proper texture,
He cast pots to his exacture,
A few came away, distorted, twisted and fallen
Others would have been dismayed, he saw it as a calling.

Why not make something of the sow's ear
A silk purse that others might call dear.
So the next few pots looked mighty queer.
Misshapen, intentionally it was clear.

Put them on the shelf with the others
To see what the tourist trade would shoulder.
But like children of every man, he valued them so
And could not bear to see his 'mud-babies' go.

Now the kids and wife too,
Turned the wheel like no others could do,
From his kiln came pot, vase, plate and whatever,
(including brothel coins for the stews)
Designs certainly not like any other.

Became known for miles around,
As the Mad Potter in Biloxi town.
Soon his fame spread from coast to coast,
Yet no one competed to see who could buy the most.

Now, books (Abbeville Press, Inc.) praise his trait
Of making something of what others see as fate.
Unique 'art' it is now recognized,
But to him was potter's craft in disguise.

'Pieces' now are collected by museums as their part
To be displayed to impress others of their support of art.
But it all began as a simple wish by a simple man
Keep food on the table; enjoy life anyway you can!

So when you see a piece of clay
Shaped with edges twisted in a certain way.
Folded and thin like no other,
Perhaps you've seen a bit of the vision of Biloxi's Mad Potter.

Or as George E. Ohr did inscribe on one of his creations:
The Somebody (that used to be) that
'made this Pot' Was born at Biloxi,
Miss – July 12,1857 (on Sunday
10.AM sharp and is and was
G. E. Ohr'...
This Pot is here, ' and I am the
Potter Who was
G. E. Ohr

(Died, April 7,1918, at 8: 10
with his mud babies buried
silent in their crate.)