"They are not bits./They are pieces.//And the pieces fit."
Patchwork
Eavan Boland
I have been thinking at random
on the universe
or rather, how nothing in the universe
is random-
(there’s nothing like presumption late at night.)
My sumptuous
trash bag of colors-
Laura Ashley cottons-
waits to be cut
and stitched and patched
but there’s a mechanical feel
about the handle
of my secondhand sewing machine,
with its flowers
and Singer painted orange on it.
And its iron wheel.
My back is to the dark.
Somewhere out there
are stars and bits of stars
and little bits of bits.
And swiftness and brightness and drift.
But is it craft or art?
I will be here
till midnight,
cross-legged in the dining-room,
logging triangles and diamonds,
cutting and aligning,
finding greens in pinks
and burgundies in whites
until I finish it.
There’s no reason in it.
Only when it’s laid
right across the floor,
sphere on square
and seam on seam,
in a good light-
a night-sky spread-
will it start to hit me.
These are not bits.
They are pieces.
And the pieces fit.
(1990)
Okay, so I know much of her thing is that she is both a woman and poet. That's what 250+ pages of prose in Object Lessons boils down to, as do many, many poems. And yet I think I only understood that intellectually, because the aspects of womanhood she most often writes about are sexuality, motherhood, and domestic chores related to raising children. She writes about various activities that aren't necessarily gender-coded, either by biology or social convention, as well, but the poems that are most obviously about her identity as a female tend to cluster around those three areas. None of which, as you might guess, I can really relate to all that well, although I think she treats them beautfully.
And then there's this. Quilting is not biologically restricted only to females, true, but it's very socially coded as a feminine activity. And here I can see her, quite vividly, sitting cross-legged on a dining room floor, sorting patches of fabric. I can see myself doing that. (Okay, I don't quilt, but I have in the past done artsy-crafty things like quilting that required laying out materials on a floor.) And suddenly I go, "Oh. She is like me. We share this. We can make those same motions and see those same patterns." She had written about my experience of being human, of being a writer, of being interested in poetry; until now, I had not run into a poem where she captured part of my experience of being female.
I don't know if that makes sense as written. But I hope this little epiphany translates into some progress on the thesis...
Eavan Boland
I have been thinking at random
on the universe
or rather, how nothing in the universe
is random-
(there’s nothing like presumption late at night.)
My sumptuous
trash bag of colors-
Laura Ashley cottons-
waits to be cut
and stitched and patched
but there’s a mechanical feel
about the handle
of my secondhand sewing machine,
with its flowers
and Singer painted orange on it.
And its iron wheel.
My back is to the dark.
Somewhere out there
are stars and bits of stars
and little bits of bits.
And swiftness and brightness and drift.
But is it craft or art?
I will be here
till midnight,
cross-legged in the dining-room,
logging triangles and diamonds,
cutting and aligning,
finding greens in pinks
and burgundies in whites
until I finish it.
There’s no reason in it.
Only when it’s laid
right across the floor,
sphere on square
and seam on seam,
in a good light-
a night-sky spread-
will it start to hit me.
These are not bits.
They are pieces.
And the pieces fit.
(1990)
Okay, so I know much of her thing is that she is both a woman and poet. That's what 250+ pages of prose in Object Lessons boils down to, as do many, many poems. And yet I think I only understood that intellectually, because the aspects of womanhood she most often writes about are sexuality, motherhood, and domestic chores related to raising children. She writes about various activities that aren't necessarily gender-coded, either by biology or social convention, as well, but the poems that are most obviously about her identity as a female tend to cluster around those three areas. None of which, as you might guess, I can really relate to all that well, although I think she treats them beautfully.
And then there's this. Quilting is not biologically restricted only to females, true, but it's very socially coded as a feminine activity. And here I can see her, quite vividly, sitting cross-legged on a dining room floor, sorting patches of fabric. I can see myself doing that. (Okay, I don't quilt, but I have in the past done artsy-crafty things like quilting that required laying out materials on a floor.) And suddenly I go, "Oh. She is like me. We share this. We can make those same motions and see those same patterns." She had written about my experience of being human, of being a writer, of being interested in poetry; until now, I had not run into a poem where she captured part of my experience of being female.
I don't know if that makes sense as written. But I hope this little epiphany translates into some progress on the thesis...