April is Poetry Month

And so ... a poem about spinning --

A Spinner's List
The old woman whispers -- come to me
and I will tach you to make magic,
cast the spells of Gideon and Arachne.
She folds my fingers around a stick
of warm basswood with a maple whorl
and slides wool across my palm,
shows me how to draft each curl
into a feathered fan, and feel the balm
of thick fragrant grease
and breathe the incense of lanolin.
I flick the spindle and release
the fragile fibers into thin
air, where they embrace emptiness and make it whole.
Now, she murmurs, chant the spell --
qiviut, bombyx, tussah, merino,
rambouillet, jacob huacaya, suri.
She whispers again, be slow --
the spider at her web does not hurry.

Where does the time go?

The Mirage pullover is coming along nicely -- finally. I ripped it out three times, thinking that the double sets of K2tog in the center of the mock cable panels just didn't look right. Of course, that would be because I was working of a photocopy of the pattern, instead of out of the book. (Yes, I own the book -- I did not make a pirated copy.) Once I looked in the actual book, I realized that the little / symbol on the chart was in a gray square -- purl 2 tog.

Easy peasy. I've got about 1/3 of the body done and the pattern is memorized -- for now, anyway. If I go a few days without knitting, it will disappear. It is the frustration of my existence that stuff like that will go away just when I need it -- but the phone number of my best friend from second grade? Right there, baby.

Most of my recent writing has been poetry -- hence the lack of knit blogging. Also, I've been struck by an essay in the current issue of Poets and Writers. In it, the author talks about the increase in technology creating so many distractions that we don't have time to let our minds wander and create. He suggested the value of mindless activity such as walking or looking at the ocean ---I simply don't understand how he could have overlooked knitting. Or spinning.

But I realize that once I turn on the computer, I can fritter (nod to my grandmother for that word) away huge, irreplaceable chunks of time. Mostly on Ravelry. I love Ravelry, and the stash organization and project queues are great for me. But really, how much time do I need to spend reading the threads about the indie dyer who allegedly faked her own death?

I am, in my extraverted way, mostly thinking "out loud" here -- what do you think? What distracts you, sucks away time you could be spending doing other things you'd really like to do?
Like knitting?

In the absence of real knitting content ...

So the lace is gone. Well, it’s cast on again as one row. With a lot of markers. We’ll see if that works. This pattern is not that difficult – why do I keep screwing it up? I haven’t even gotten to the point where I’d normally put in a lifeline – there haven’t been enough correct rows.

Also, I hit a deer yesterday, so there was not a lot of time for things other than trips to the body shop, dealing with the insurance, etc.

And since it seemed to be the first question and primary concern of the 911 operator, the guy at the construction site where I pulled off, the deputy and others, I will tell you now:
No, the deer did not survive.

But I’m fine, thanks for asking.

In the absence of knitting, we turn once again to poetry. Week two of National Poetry Month. This one was written to describe a time just before I filed for divorce – which at this point, is more that 10 years ago, but hey, you get the idea.

Ten Years Ago, Out My Window

When no one is looking
I go to the window
smearing the smudges
trying to see the snow.

There is one small spot clear still
bright as new wine
a tiny clean place
protected from the filth of time.

My hand can conceal it
keep it shielded and safe,
I can look when I can
a child’s peek-a-boo game.

But my hand left a blot –
the corner I saved for myself
is gone.

My tears, clichéd, pass
over my cheeks like diamonds
and I remember what I knew
somewhere, long ago –
diamonds cut glass.

Reach out with my left fist
diamond flinging
refracted light
fingers clenching

I scratch the pane deep and hard
digging a keyhole.
If I press it with my tongue,
I can taste the balsam cold.

Someday, the hole will grow
larger still and I will be very quiet and small
and I will go through the hole like Alice
and walk in the snow.

I promised (or threatened) poetry, didn't I?

I'm sure I did.

And it's poetry month, so what better time to share? If you love poetry, or would just like to try some, consider Knopf's poem-a-day, which they present every April. You get one great poem a day in your e-mail, sometimes with an audio clip of the poet reading it.

It won't hurt, I promise.

And in the spirit of April ---

Angels in the Snow

In the throat-closing cold

across the empty snow

the air is still as a chapel

and house lights scatter chunks of gold.

I search for angels in the night,

listening for the silent flight

of wings or the sound of

glorias being raised on high

trying to call to mind stories

of angels bringing comfort and peace

but remembering instead Jacob wrestling

and shepherds on their knees.

I then recall that

angels always say 'fear not'

at each meeting with mere mortals

who may regret being caught

by this presence of fire and air

these heralds of our destiny and fate

I, too late, begin to wonder

did the shepherds fall not in awe

but terror?

I turn and see the sweep and line

of moon-sculpted shadow, a flying

messenger of God's desire

this towering angel-form -- mine.