poem: In praise of knitting

I have been reading Los Angeles poet and instructor Terry Wolverton's new (simply wonderful) book- Shadow and Praise. In the praise section, there is a poem to knitting. I asked Terry if I could post her poems on my blog.

This book is in two sections. The second section is a series of "praise" poems. The praise poems are linked by images. What she does is that she praises something that appears in the last few lines of the previous poem. So unexpected. As I was reading them, I kept wondering, what is she going to praise next?

Anyway, here is the poem

from SHADOW AND PRAISE by Terry Wolverton, Main Street Rag, Charlotte, N.C., 2007. http://www.mainstreetrag.com/store/books.php

In praise of knitting

However it may appear, nothing is straightforward. Always a tangle, a twist, slip knot turning wrist to wrest my grasp on simplicity. Complicit, I drop stitches too. Gasp. Knit one. Purl two. Nine perfect rows before the pattern switches and I am ribbing. Then I make my home in a new motif. No relief until a wave of worsted undulates across my weathered lap, spills forward to lap my toes. Fevered in summertime, blanket of seed stitch and cable. Troubled hands possessed, I cast on (and on) but where do I bind off? I’ve lost the thread. Forehead puckers. Days unravel, wasted skein. Lulled by needles’ tick. Needles prick my torpid senses.

And here is the previous poem to In praise of knitting. check out the last image. She makes me want to use a bad fiber arts metaphor to describe her process...

In praise of Pandora’s box

Hope was not quick enough to join the jailbreak. Her punkass cousins split at the first crack of daylight. Provoked a fracas that swarms the planet still. That’s why I always sign my name with spit. It being her nature, she made the best of prolonged captivity. Grew accustomed to the scent of cedar, sedentary lifestyle. Taught herself to knit. Wingbone needles in her small hands. She yoked a sweater of resignation to replace her original plumage. Now it’s all the rage on the runway. That’s why I speak in my father’s stutter. Someday, she thinks, her hapless guardian might lift the lid again. Her walls grow redolent of wool. Needles clack like bones. Hope knits.

And because I just can't resist.... here is the poem that follows In praise of knitting

In praise of the senses

What do I know with my eyes? I am a child today, lost in fog. Mist spatters my car windows; it’s difficult to breathe. Chimes in wind. Musical bracelets. Perfumed hands more chemical than flower. In the mirror, my eyes are innocent. Marbled and grave. On the anniversary of really looking. I never heard buzzing till the lights were dimmed. My mouth tastes dull and old, the gray of tepid water. Air hisses through swollen cavities. Pen presses its indentation to my middle finger, a palpable effort of words. I wear this mark. I hold so hard. Try as it might, sun can’t push through. Not this day. I see what I see. The rest sloughs off. I teeter on the border of the tangible.