Woven
Woven
Woven by deft hands, old weathered hands,
that know this dance, this purpose
that lingers in the blood, generations inspired,
to exact the beauty of tradition
and furnish the dexterity of creative minds.
Seated in the dry dusts of pains,
by dark Bedouin tents, their life’s belongings,
as sun imparts the same warmth,
to those before amid red dust and stones,
weaving love into fabric.
Artfully they pattern,
in hues so clean and harmonious,
and animals find place, with one an evil eye
to protect and rid the darkness,
for those who will own this work.
I love the artistry,
the tradition that underlies the weaver’s labor,
and so patient she, who sits so serenely
hour after hour, her hands so adept,
to create the beauty of the black faced sheep’s wool
that finds its way to heaven.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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Great verse, Tony. What the skillful artist weaves into images for the sight is beautiful. The love woven into the completed piece, is seen only by those who admire the artistry and tradition. When I am beading a piece in Native American style, I think of the generations of grandmothers who sat in the warm sun creating beauty, carrying on their traditions. I hope weaving and beading never become lost artistry. I love this poem – it reminds me I have some unfinished pieces to complete. Beautiful poem.
I worked for an importer of Persian and Asian weaving and carpets and used to lecture on the history and nomadic arts of the Middle East, and developed such a love of the craft. That picture of a simple Iranian Kilim, sits behind my desk on the wall. I have only six or so pieces of the woven art left now, but I do love them all. Glad you enjoyed the thoughts.