To all my readers who sew, hear here! And to my mother who does still :)
My Down Coat has 59 seams
This poem began being about industrialization,
me bemoaning that workers
spend all day sewing single seams.
Perhaps there is meditation
in the lift of the little metal foot,
in positioning two pieces of cloth,
satisfaction graduating to zippers and pockets,
threading the tie that encloses the hood.
Even so, it seems a shame
someone who labors all day doesn’t have completion,
from the bolt of fabric, to being warmed in the cold.
It is a loss that few of us sew anymore,
there are so many lessons on how to be.
Hand stitching is the steady accumulation of security.
A seam ripper helps us recognize
that with patience we can rectify mistakes.
You work from the inside of a garment,
not immediately able to see the results,
true of most accomplishments in life.
Basting holds things together before you commit,
allowance we all can use.
Serge and selvage, two terms
that refer to the edges of fabric.
Surge and salvage, two words
that refer to the edges in life.
And I must mention
patterns and pinking shears and
mending, joining, binding, lining, tacking, staying.
The sewing machine is among greatest hits,
beside the cotton gin, printing press, motorcar and computer.
A gadget that weaves two threads from top and bottom!
Invented in 1790 by a man whose last name was Saint!
A man’s shirt took 14 hours by hand,
with a Singer, a Bernina, an Elna, a Brother
toiling was reduced to an hour and a half.
With needle and thimble, most people had only two outfits-
a work outfit and a Sunday outfit.
Can you imagine?
Such lexicon of leisure, vocabulary of vaudeville-
bobbin case, noodle bar, foot and foot dog,
upper arm shaft, connecting rods,
loop taker, machine bed, feed dog,
overlock and chainstitch.
Such fabrics! In colors and patterns
both tropical and temperate!
So many l’s, a landscape of alliteration!
voile, velvet, satin and silk,
denim and damask, chintz and chenille.
Houndstooth and corduroy, seersucker.
Coral reefs of texture!
Textiles of confection!
And the accoutrements, the swag...
the sewing box is both dopp kit and magician’s suitcase,
leagues of mystery and efficiency.
The pincushion alone is haiku worthy
Pincushion
such noble restraint
to be able to poke it
my disdain channelled
I never tire of turning open
a blouse and looking at the seams,
French or straight, zig zagged or bound?
I never take for granted mortal men and women
transformed into gods and goddesses
with each tuck on a waistcoat, each sequin looped on a ball gown.
I never stop imagining before clothes were ready made.
Rushing down a dusty road,
a new pattern of calico just arrived at the mercantile!