Światowy Dzień Poezji

21 marca. Dzień ten obfituje w różne rocznicowe wydarzenia, o których mówić nie będziemy. Nie wspomnimy też o licznych świętach obchodzonych tego dnia w różnych zakątkach świata*. Nie złożymy życzeń żadnemu Benedyktowi, Filemonowi, Filemonie, Klemencji, Lubomirowi, Ludomirowi, Ludomirze, Mikołajowi, Pafnucemu, Serapionowi i Teodulowi. Będziemy celebrować Światowy Dzień Poezji. Tkackiej poezji.

Edwin Holgate, The Old Loom

Całkiem niedawno otrzymałam od Alicji szwedzki wierszyk.

Är du vid vardagslivet led,
och synes dagen grå,
så sätt dig vid din vävstol ned,
och väv en aln, ja, två.
Då gladare du livet ser
-Det är en moras råd-
och du åt vardagsväven ger
en vackert glansig våd.

English translation.

Are you in everyday life stage,
and seemingly gray day,
so sit down at your loom,
and weave a yard, well, two.
When you are happier life see
it is a moras( housewife_ advice
and lets you access daily by your
loom beauiful fabric with glossy våd*
*kjolvåd= gore, tygvåd= width, tapetvåd= length
(wkleiłam tak jak otrzymałam)

Ów krótki, anonimowy, jak mniemam, utwór, otworzył mi nowe drzwi - drzwi do świata tkackiej poezji. Mam nadzieję, że tych kilka utworów sprawi Wam taką samą przyjemność jaką sprawiły mnie.


If
If you can wind a warp
And never miss the cross,
If you can thread the heddles one by one
And never suffer loss,
If you can reed the threads
And never miss a dent,
And smilingly repeat your pattern
And never once resent
An interruption or a muttered curse
From workers by your side,
If you can start to weave
And find the threads you thought were tied
Are loose; if you can cheerfully retrace
Your steps and do it all again,
Then call yourself a weaver, friend;
Your patience has no end.
(anonim)

Indian Weavers

WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

Sarojini Naidu

Celebration of life

I did not choose fibers, fibers chose me.
Maybe we were already connected in a previous life… ?
My life and my work are closely related. Warps, strands of life . . .
Weft, the stories we weave into the warp, the stories of our lives.
Slowly the picture begins to unfold; every row of weft adding a little more to life’s story.
Changes and constants.
We can change the color of the weft, add some texture, change the whole design if we so desire, just as we can make changes in our lives.
But the warp remains constant.
Its threads keep running through the entire piece, connecting past with present and the future.
 
Strands of fiber, strands of life, woven together into an integrated piece, a fabric of life.

These fabrics are my stories; cries of pain and songs of joy and hope.
My life, my song.
I am alive!
I am part of this world and I am myself.
I can step out of this world and step into the world of dreams and imagination.
That is where I create – Celebrations of Life.
 
I give my song to others and it continues when people wear the fabric I have woven.
There is a transformation; the fibers come alive.
The fabric moves with the body, color changes, another human spirit is added and a new design, a new song is born.
 
Albertje Koopman

Weaving Haiku

Cold gray winter day—
Weaver readies her shuttles.
Bright basket of pirns.


A na koniec jeszcze jedno (niby)haiku będące żartobliwym podsumowaniem posta o tkackiej poezji.

***
Broken warp end. Damn.
Fix it. Continue weaving.
Broken warp end. Damn.

;-)



* Wszyscy spragnieni informacji na temat tego o czym nie mówimy i o czym nie wspominamy odsyłam do Wikipedii