Here is an excerpt from Howard McCord’s poem, “Listening to Maps”:
We are sitting here, you and I,
in a place on a map.
We know this.
Yet we are not on the map.
We are looking for ourselves.
This is the rustle of leaves
that you hear,
the crackle of folding paper,
the sound of old maps.
And from “Map”, the great poem by Wislawa Szymborska:
I like maps, because they lie.
Because they give no access to the vicious truth.
Because great-heartedly, good-naturedly
they spread before me a world
not of this world.
Maps are as much metaphor as a stab at objective reality. Why not imagine the world through ceramic vessels masquerading as atlases.