I have been noticing lately how some of the things I feel inspired to paint are another expression of poems I have written. Today’s little offering here is one such. I don’t sew much any more (I’m way out of practice and my machine needs servicing) but this painting and poem take me back to the days I did.
In Stitches
I am in the choice of pattern
and my fantasy
of how the suit sketched in tweed
will be incarnated in velvet.
I am in the tissue pieces
laid precisely, pinned snugly
facing the right way
on the wrong side.
I am in the concentration of my tongue
and in the rhythm of my heart
as scissor blades
crunch, crunch, crunch.
I am in the synapses that pass
from instruction sheet to brain
to fingers in spaces
filled with the conductive medium of faith.
I am on the rolling highway of stitches, even and perfect
seams, smooth and straight
then in the pin-prick that sees
something is wrong: I must rip and return.
I am in the mirror
reflecting shoulders that bag
a waist too tight
and a skirt that sags.
Then, at last, after being in gathers, easements
overcast hems and under the hot iron
I am, snug and snazzy,
in this garment I have made.
© 2006 – Violet Nesdoly
(The editor of Vogue Patterns magazine came across this poem — probably on one of my blogs — and asked if she could use it. It was published in the December 2010 / January 2011 edition of the magazine. That magazine ceased publication in the spring of 2019)
Violet Nesdoly 