Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ON A GREY-HAIRED OLD LADY KNITTING, by FRANK WILMOT Poet's Biography First Line: Cast on 120 stitches Last Line: And turn, lady, turn. Alternate Author Name(s): Maurice, Furnley Subject(s): Knitting; Symphonies; Concerts | ||||||||
AT AN ORCHESTRAL CONCERT IN THE MELBOURNE TOWN HALL. PRICES, TWO AND ONE PLUS TAX CAST on 120 stitches, Rep. to the end of the row; Loop the scream of the flying witches And the bassoon moaning low. Surely this will be wondrous raiment With mellow horn-tones woven in, The clarinet's woodnotes and the clamant Trombone courting the violin. Little black dots for the drums, dear lady, A blue gash for the viola, please; There's a faun in an afternoon, cool and shady, And sun on morning seas. And there's the thin triangle sound -- Can you snare, do you think, The bell-bird clink Like fairy jewellers that tap On silver anvils in the trees? You will trap, mayhap, With ease The procession of chords profound Purple with passion that sweep Across the bass viols murmuring deep; Can you capture those, do you think? And weave them into your garment's shape, O feverish finger loom! So tone and measure shall never escape The mesh of their woolly doom? Weave these rhythms deep, old lady, Cross and common, triple and ragged; Trees and towers thrust black against An orange sunset sky. Not words, nor thoughts, nor facts you capture But moods and melodic volume You shackle in rhythms there. For thought goes beyond the decoys And steady beat of the old pentameter's jog Or hendecasyllabics, sapphics, alcaics or strophes, Paeons or anapests; but here the wild stars come Ranged in tramping battalions out of the vast to your fingers And nameless, smothered emotions Sway in new measures. Gales swell and recede and the trees bow in due order; Bars of the bird carols melt and merge; The waves make regular cadence To the sound of moonlight flooding a snow-capped crag, Snatch these rhythms and hold them, lady, Till your woven garment is home for the thunder And the colour that throbs in a rose. All this comes from the magic wand Beckoning harmony from beyond, Of the oil-haired, hollow-backed baton-waver Who swoops and flogs like a galley-slaver; So weave them, lady, weave them in, Horror and sunshine, laughter and sin. Not words, not words, but moods and measures Out from the vast's unnameable treasures. Till through your quiet thread there runs The unspeakable heat of the suns, And your deft loopings hold Space's unspeakable cold, Till the norms of your rhythms exceed A constellation's flashing speed. K. 1 purl to the last stitch, K. Rep. to the end 2 tog. and spurn The passages where mad brasses bray And turn, lady, turn. A quiet of babies in their beds Breaks to the drums and the cymbals flashing gold; An angry gale has torn the clouds to shreds, A naked moon is shivering in the cold, O knit and weave your warp and woof Under the candelabraed roof That, melting in music, opens wide On the uncounted stars outside. Flutter on, fingers, fetch and fend; How do you know you are venturing where The phantoms of old desires contend With spectres of young despair? How will you know what spells are caught In the nooses of endless thread? How will you govern this wild thing fraught With the abracadabra of dread? Is it garb for sages, garb for youth? How much terror, how much truth? Here all the howling fates are loosed; Know you what things your chains have noosed? Here all Christ's miracles are freed And groping in a hopeless need, Have a care, lady, oh, have care -- How can you will what you will not snare? From the sleeve-holes shape the shoulder, Purl to the last eight, click the bones; P. 7, K. 1, cast off; bolder Sound the cheeky little piccolo's tones. Weave away, lady, and when you have done Some youth will plunder this robe from you -- He shall outlive the sun. Shimmering with all the captured wonder Of starry waters and flowers and thunder, Things of spirit and things of thew, He'll throw the garment about his shoulders Making zealots of all beholders. Chaos may threaten, passion condemn But he will shepherd them From our deliberate mazes Of the wizardry of phrases Into a world of calmer aims, Sweeter spirit and selfless claims And clearer sight. At his beckoning they will come To dip their cups and draw Of the clear waters flowing from The wells of universal law And universal light Till Forbearance, gentle wraith, Puts swords of pity in hands of faith For there's this power in Beauty, lady weaver, Beyond all sermons of the true believer. For he shall take The self-deceit Out of their ordered, aimless lives; And he shall make Old scars of gyves Sprout Hermes wings for blundering feet. K. 1 purl to your heart's content, Rep. to the end 2 tog. and spurn The baton waving its last lament And turn, lady, turn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SYMPHONIC STUDIES (AFTER ROBERT SCHUMANN) by EMMA LAZARUS PAPER ANNIVERSARY by MURIEL RUKEYSER AT A BACH CONCERT by ADRIENNE CECILE RICH THAT GENERAL UTILITY RAG, BY OUR OWN IRVING BERLIN by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS A SPRING SYMPHONY by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR BEETHOVEN by ETHEL TONRY CARPENTER THE WORLD DICTATES by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES A NEW YEAR'S SYMPHONY by MARGARETTE BALL DICKSON SIXTH SYMPHONY by LIDA MARIE ERWIN |
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