The stitch is lost unless the thread is knotted.
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The stitch is lost unless the thread be knotted.
A Pocket Handkerchief To Hem
A pocket handkerchief to hem -
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!
How many stitches it will take
Before it's done, I fear.
Yet set a stitch and then a stitch,
And stitch and stitch away,
Till stitch by stitch the hem is done -
And after work is play!
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Stiches
Sew me back together
Make every stitch clean
Pull the thread tighter
I'm ripping from the seams
Come quickly whoever you are
And stitch back together my heart
poem by Sydney Bell
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Stitches
Sew me back together
Make every stitch clean
Pull the thread tighter
I'm ripping from the seams
Come quickly whoever you are
And stitch back together my heart
poem by Zara Youtz
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For a Daughter Who Leaves
A woman weaves
her daughter's wedding
slippers that will carry
her steps into a new life.
The mother weeps alone
into her jeweled sewing box
slips red thread
around its spool,
the same she used to stitch
her daughter's first silk jacket
embroidered with turtles
that would bring luck, long life.
She remembers all the steps
taken by her daughter's
unbound quick feet:
dancing on the stones
of the yard among yellow
butterflies and white breasted sparrows.
And she grew, legs strong
body long, mind
independent.
Now she captures all eyes
with her hair combed smooth
and her hips gently
swaying like bamboo.
The woman
spins her thread
from the spool of her heart,
knotted to her daughter's
departing
wedding slippers.
poem by Janice Mirikitani
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Revival is A Boost
The more I loved her the more I thirsted.
The more I pursued the more she thawed.
Had I not been struck, had she not been knotted,
We would have been knotted, tightly knotted.
I heard she was fervent to get my verses.
My hormones are once more in spate thanks to her.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Who doesn't make a knot at the end of the thread, loses the stitch more than once.
The Song of the Shirt
The Song of the Shirt
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
poem by Thomas Hood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Life a mystery
a needle receiving a thread
making decisions
knotted tightly at the end
life is but a winding road.
tanka by Heather Burns
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Uncommon Sense
If there is no beginning how may end
advance as foe, be welcome found as friend -
for if the wheel turns all's spun pattern which
must weave itself through every thread and stitch,
Thus if there is no wheel what cares can mend
cares' mirage cares, last bend loops round next bend.
Ensure what's done is fun, spent full and rich,
as for regrets: there is no tent to pitch...
18 April 2005 retitled with minor changes 2 May 2008 -
robi03_1231_robi03_0000 XXX_ZXX
for previous version see below
If there is no beginning how can end
advance as foe, be welcome found as friend -
for if the wheel turns all's spun pattern which
must weave itself through every thread and stitch,
Thus if there is no wheel what cares can mend
the cares of cares - there's only one last bend!
Ensure what's done is fun, spent full and rich,
as for regrets no tent is there to pitch!
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Single Thread
Life is but a single thread
that stretches into infinity.
If the thread is ever broken
life then drifts away,
lost to the eons of eternal night.
There is no mending the thread
that is once severed,
no going back to recover.
Gone forever the control
it drifts endlessly away
into a greater light
than the one we know.
26 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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Some Days
Some days, I suture myself together
When the seams of my personality
Seem to tear so swiftly from the tether,
The quilted rag of my identity.
Some days, I allow my woolen spindle
To unravel itself into string.
Downward and unrolling, it's mass dwindles
As gravity forces it's spiraling.
Some days, I untangle the knotted threads
That tie all my patches tightly in place,
Preferring that maybe this time instead
I could sow myself and happily trace
The stitch-work compiling the positive
Ways in which, I think, I would like to live.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Knotting Song
"Hears not my Phyllis how the birds
Their feathered mates salute?
They tell their passion in their words:
Must I alone be mute?"
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"The god of love in thy bright eyes
Does like a tyrant reign;
But in thy heart a child he lies,
Without his dart of flame."
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"So many months in silence past,
And yet in raging love,
Might well deserve one word at last
My passion should approve."
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
"Must then your faithful swain expire,
And not one look obtain,
Which he, to soothe his fond desire,
Might pleasingly explain?"
Phyllis, without frown or smile,
Sat and knotted all the while.
poem by Sir Charles Sedley
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You, Crocheted With Love
each thread is chosen carefully
you,
desire,
passion and love
bound neatly together
deftly intertwined into one.
Within the stitch
I reside
within the row
is my desire
from the precision knots
exudes my passion...
imbued with love
it is tenderly created from my heart
so you can gracefully wear it
on your sleeve.
poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul
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The Old Army Blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
The soldier did not seem to care
Let the enemy try to take if he dare;
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare
Driving rain or snow wearing his blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
Being a soldier he could expect no better fare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
His fight done, read over with a prayer
Wrapped in the old grey Army blanket
Coarse and ruff quite often thread bare.
He did his duty few could compare,
Coarse and ruff, quite often thread bare
poem by Derrick Fernie
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A Stitch In Time
I work in dark factories --- a cog in the big wheel
Driving grey satanic mills and weaving sad stories.
And faceless masters --- oh, they pay me plenty ---
Crumbs from their luncheon packs, harsh wine from
Bottles halk empty.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Said cock robin from the wall.
Its an early bird catches the worm.
Show a little pride before you fall.
So I flew to the south sun with birds of a feather
To drink in the warm nights and tell of fine weather.
A stitch in time saves nine.
Listen all you young folk --- your lives on a timetable
Clocking on twenty-one --- fly while youre able.
A stitch in time saves nine.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Broken Thread
Broken Thread
Waking early I hear myself breathing
Covered up in my hand me down hand me down
Hiding under my patchwork freezing
With my wedding dress calling me, calling me
I dress myself in dis-function
Do I drown you in sympathy, sympathy
You could be my winter messiah
Scarred around and around me....around me
Cause im stiched up like an angel chord, I'm fixed up
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
I choose to set you on fire
No-more wearing and tearing me, tearing me
Your still my only desire
And now it seems like your leaving me, freeing me, healing me.
Cause im stiched up like an angel chord, I'm fixed up
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
They try to run and hide somehere in there defense
And now want to hand me down again.....
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
On a broken thread
song performed by by Natalie Imbruglia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fading Tunes
i keep singing the same song
for the low pitch but the tune so long
i cling on to the whirling wind
never mind life at it's own speed
After all;
History buries no heroes
Age admits no zeroes
the dead are only weighty kilos
Nevertheless...
our time always comes
surely our prides always hurls
yet our wickedness ever curls
After all, We are just human
Every man with a half rib for a woman
a stitch by stitch is a full human
flesh for immortal soul makes us strong
poem by Timothy muggaga
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Solitude
How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.
Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fixed mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far-off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Mindfield
He screams at me in my own voice.
Dismantling my being thread by thread.
While inside I cower to the deepest depths of my soul.
I rage, yet I am gentle.
I am not good enough, yet I am great.
I am weak, yet so strong.
I am ugly, yet I am beautiful.
I am right, yet I am wrong.
I do what I think, and not think of what I do.
Greed, power, control and fear.
Feeding my starving mind.
A glutton that can never be satisfied.
I must be right.
In order to be right, I cannot do right.
Burying myself deeper and deeper inside.
It is not the world that can fix me.
It is the world that broke me.
I am truly broken.
I try to seep through the cracks of my brokenness.
I still see no light though.
I beat myself to a pulp.
The final blow.
A knock out punch I delivered.
Which came at the hands of another.
I am now shattered.
Yet, I am now truly free.
Pick up the pieces of myself.
I was my own worst enemy.
It was when I was broken,
I broke others,
It was when I was hurt,
I hurt others.
It was when I was lost,
Following the lost,
Becoming even more lost.
I am now found.
My inner light shines.
To help guide you home.
For your home is truly.
Deep inside my heart.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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