Thursday, December 17, 2015

How knitting is not like writing a poem

While knitting a delicate piece of twisted threads interweaving tiny squares of silver and bronze, I think about this craft. In the past and not so long ago, well maybe a life time ago, the yarn was just yarn, of one color or another, and women and men in Ireland and Guernsey knitted sweaters of intricate patterns. In Scandinavia and Scotland multi-colored motifs were worked across the chest and back. The labor was the knitter's. Today's yarns make it easy for me to produce something exquisite with little effort. The yarn comes flecked or knotted, or flat as a ribbon. Every skein produces something fine. My only job is to decide how long to make it, like a poor poem made of random letters and a carriage return.

At least I have a scarf in the end, even if it owes its beauty to someone else's effort.

(Meanwhile, the monkey is still typing while we wait for Shakespeare.)

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