Blindness/Poetry/ Fabric of Lives – “Against the Weave”
DVerse Poets Pub has a lovely prompt today, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto, broadly based on quilting, the fabric of one’s life, as a means of self-expression, art, beauty (as well as warmth). My poem below is about a blind relative who actually made the rug depicted above. (Please note that the poem itself is fictional! Also that it’s a draft! (NOTE – December 13–I’ve done a revised version of the poem below which may be found here.)
Against the weave
The convulsive flicker
could just hook onto the gap
between white and black but
other spectral shifts–
cadmium to indigo to green–
could not be seen, nor shapes–
except for looming or not there–so
he chose his shades by smell mainly: some washed
with the saltiness of fresh ham, others imbued with a slight
must, a corner of the
barn where the planks rotted.
An occasional skein smelled
new mown while another whispered of water
silken with suds. Others
he could barely stand to sniff, their acrid
sharpness testifying to strong dyes, the warp
of a fresh uniform–he remembered
when his brothers had gotten
away–or even the diluted stink
of slaughtering pen.
There were colored yarns too and webs
of cloth that he twisted before weaving–
their original patterns–the chintz or pink
geometry–converted on his cellar loom to
a knotted crisscross, stripes
that would hold up to years
of sun or shadow, feet and floor.
His shirt was always buttoned
to the chin, belt loops puckered,
eyelids fluttering beneath a pale high
forehead that seemed, nonetheless, compressed
as if trying hard to focus all
that could not be seen.
But meeting him one would look
at the large knuckled hands (turning
from eyes, forehead). Hard to realize from their
stiff dangle how fast they could
weave. For he got
very good at it, one past-time
allowed a blind man
when sons were meant to plow
straight furrows.
(P.S. – I am also submitting this poem for Gooseberry’s poetry picnic.)
Explore posts in the same categories: poetry, UncategorizedTags: "Against the Weave", Karin Gustafson, manicddaily, poem about blind son, rag rug made by blind son
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ManicDDaily 
December 10, 2011 at 7:51 pm
what i like best here is the way the smells contrast with the sights. good job.
December 10, 2011 at 8:01 pm
This is pretty damn put-together for a draft, Karin. You nail the spirit of art out of adversity, making the silk purse, or at least a rag rug, out of a sow’s skein of hardship. Fine poem, just as it is–lord knows how good it will get if you get serious. ;_)
December 10, 2011 at 8:06 pm
Ha, well, thanks very much. I really do like to try to get poems down to shorter than a page. (Sort of like Herman Cain and his congressional bills. Ha.) K.
December 11, 2011 at 1:34 pm
You know, woke up this morning, and realized where I’d gone wrong–not wrong, but waylaid, not bringing out what I wanted. I find it takes me a long time to get to that sometimes, where I think a point is made, but it’s too buried or squeamish, I don’t know. Anyway, if I have time, may try to work on different version for open link night.
December 10, 2011 at 8:39 pm
fabulous story telling…i felt i knew the man…and would love to sit and watch him…we used to have a blind man come set the piano and i would do the same…and knowing them by smell that was a great texture…nice….
December 10, 2011 at 8:59 pm
Thanks. I was thinking of the sound of the loom (like piano) but didn’t get a chance to put that in. K.
December 10, 2011 at 9:31 pm
An amazing poem…I enjoyed all of the details throughout!
December 10, 2011 at 10:32 pm
I never thought about how a blind person may use the sense of smell to distinguish different colours, very cleverly weaved tale by you and, a well made rug made by your blind relative too.
December 10, 2011 at 10:53 pm
It’s amazing what the blind can do. Helen Keller is my inspiration. This is beautiful.
December 11, 2011 at 5:50 am
really cool…love that he choses his shades by smell… i’m a big fan of weaving scents into poems and you did it masterfully.. also in awe that he made the rug on the pic… enjoyed it much
December 11, 2011 at 10:08 am
By smelling and feeling the fabric, he weave a fine piece of work…Like all the details of colours here too.
This is a creative and imaginative share ~ I like it ~
December 11, 2011 at 3:14 pm
I can’t imagine this will need too much editing, Karin. For me, the way you engaged the senses, the way a blind person has to rely on them, allowed me to experience what he might have. This is superb…but that’s how you deliver.
December 11, 2011 at 3:16 pm
Thanks so much. You are very kind. I had a thought this morning about it, and if I have time, will try to follow it up. PS – your prompts are so great. (I don’t mean the one with me, particularly!) In general, they are very thoughtful and wonderful. K.
December 11, 2011 at 3:24 pm
Stunning– absolutely stunning, so rich with detail and expansive music, and freedom within the line and varying the line-lengths, beautiful enjambment, and then, your language– exquisite, on the money.
I especially loved:
Others
he could barely stand to sniff, their acrid
sharpness testifying to strong dyes, the warp
of a fresh uniform–he remembered
when his brothers had gotten
away–or even the diluted stink
of slaughtering pen
don’t think you need to worry about coherence in this poem in terms of re-mentioning the eyes and forehead– you could easily just draw us to his hands.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with Dawn Potter’s work– she’s doing very well at the moment and periodically speaks to me via comments about allowing ambiguity in the poem. The piece I posted the other day triggered by listening to my new Chanticleer CD– I Am Speaking of This– tries to be allusive and to deliberately dance away from precise and contained meanings and for those reasons I like it so far. xxxj
December 11, 2011 at 3:29 pm
Thanks very much.
December 11, 2011 at 4:32 pm
the senses at play, well developped, nice!
happy gooseberry day! 🙂
my entry: http://lynnaima.wordpress.com/2011/12/07/of-me/
December 11, 2011 at 10:39 pm
amazing story.
you never disappoint, smiles.
Happy Poetry Picnic.
December 12, 2011 at 11:34 am
keep it up.
🙂
December 13, 2011 at 2:19 am
What a rich tapestry you have woven here – I could hear it, see it, smell it, touch it. I particularly loved the scent descriptions, beautifully done.
December 13, 2011 at 4:00 am
I agree with everyone else: a wonderful, moving poem.
December 13, 2011 at 4:22 am
An exciting concept, well executed.
December 13, 2011 at 4:48 am
a beautiful write
December 13, 2011 at 11:13 am
I’m not often a fan of back stories to a poem but the back story to this poem enhances the reading experience. Bravo!
Cheers,
Mark Butkus
December 13, 2011 at 11:20 am
Thanks. You know I just really revised this poem today–it was a draft and I think I’ve incorporated more of a story into it, at least think the revised version is better. It can be found here. (Though I thank you for your kind comment on the draft.)
December 14, 2011 at 11:45 am
“An occasional skein smelled
new mown while another whispered of water
silken with suds. Others
he could barely stand to sniff, their acrid
sharpness testifying to strong dyes, the warp
of a fresh uniform–he remembered
when his brothers had gotten
away–or even the diluted stink
of slaughtering pen.”
Such incredible imagery! You really took me there, to his senses being overloaded by these smells. Wonderful! Here’s my offering this week: http://caridwen.wordpress.com/2011/12/09/drafting-personal-census/