The poem I wrote for Wafflers on Friday
Quick background: This after dinner speaking club allows for four or five speakers after an excellent black-tie dinner. The speakers have normally had about 6 weeks notice of the topic, which they may interpret in any way they like or even completely ignore. I got a phone call Thursday night asking me very nicely but desperately could I please speak on Friday as they were down to 3.
Passion
I have a passion - oh yes.
I have a passion - oh my.
I have a passion, a deep-rooted passion,
A lusting for fabrics of colour and fashion,
And money to buy them and places to stash them,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I buy them for colour, for pattern and hue,
I buy them in yellows and greens and in blues,
With shiny adornment which sweeps side to side,
In shimmering sequins and beads different-dyed,
In stripes or in checks or in gingham or plaid
Or printed in colours that nature ne'er had,
With patterns and pictures, like flowers or spots,
Or weird-coloured animals covered in dots,
And sometimes the colours are woven just right
So the shading will change as it moves in the light
Or the colour is deep and the subtle shades fight
So you've blue in the daytime and purple at night,
And sometimes the colours don't really combine,
But I like the clashes, the contrast sublime,
And my husband complains 'cause they're way out of line,
But I wear them, and stand out, because they are mine,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I revel in tactile, I live for the touch,
The feel of the fabric is almost too much,
They all feel quite different, they all have their way
Of making your fingers feel good for a day,
There's nothing quite like the firm feeling you find
With a good linen woven with crispness in mind,
It's hard to believe that a fabric so white
Could come from a reed that is dingy to sight
And then sits in a pit full of water to rot,
Then it's beaten and battered and squished quite a lot,
Then mixed with a whitener and left in a pot,
And drawn into threads (and there mustn't be knots),
And the choices of weave, they're so many and vast,
There's the fine one that's ironed state never will last,
Or the coarse woven linen, or napkins which pass
Through the hard wash and dryer, yet come white at last,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I love making patterns, or adding a bit,
Or stitching in threads till my eye's most unfit,
I've manifold projects and ideas and more
Till the spare room has more than the local craft store
And there's one for the train and there's one for the home
And there's one that's for holidays (too big to roam)
And there's one that I'd like to do, but for the fear
That it's likely to take me about seven years
It's a cross-stitch that's made on a linen so fine
That there's twenty-eight stitches on each one-inch line
And the flosses (the threads) must be blended and twined
And I think that to try it will make me go blind,
And the family know me and know my small sin
Of buying some more at each craft fair I'm in,
So they watch me, they stop me, but they never win
And my stash grows still fat while my wallet grows thin
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I don't just buy things, you know - sometimes I do
Really manage to see a long project right through.
I've knitted a swathe of good jumpers for those
That I think of as family, friends and some foes...
There's Geoffrey's good jumper I knitted a while
It took twenty-eight colours, but now it has style,
And several for Adam, and one for his dad
And one for my brother and one I have had,
And baby-clothes: easy, because they are small
You can finish them quickly and just use two balls
And the patterns are simple, they're no time at all,
You can start it at Central, it's done by the Falls
And sometimes the patterns are lacy and sweet,
But they catch in the fingers and hassle the feet,
So I'd much rather knit up a sweater complete
And the parents are grateful, whetever the feat,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
My husband and I share this passion in parts,
It's one of the things we found out at the start,
We've similar taste when it comes to the smell
And the feel and the look and the contact as well,
We both have a loving for protein that comes
From the glands that are found in a small silkworm's bum,
They extrude the substance, it makes their cocoon,
We take it and spin it and set up a loom,
The silk that results can be many a kind
It can slide softly satin or crinkle, or bind,
It can rustle and stand on its own, or you'll find
That it drapes and embraces, a feeling sublime,
We've pieces and lengths, and we've got not a few
Of the silks that an emperor's daughter might use,
And we've probably more than we'll need to get through,
But then maybe we'll buy just another - or two,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I have a passion - oh yes.
I have a passion - oh my.
I have a passion, a deep-rooted passion,
A lusting for fabrics of colour and fashion,
And money to buy them and places to stash them,
I've more than a partner, he also must have them,
And maybe we'll use them and maybe we'll flash them
and sew them and wear them - but we'll never trash them,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
Passion
I have a passion - oh yes.
I have a passion - oh my.
I have a passion, a deep-rooted passion,
A lusting for fabrics of colour and fashion,
And money to buy them and places to stash them,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I buy them for colour, for pattern and hue,
I buy them in yellows and greens and in blues,
With shiny adornment which sweeps side to side,
In shimmering sequins and beads different-dyed,
In stripes or in checks or in gingham or plaid
Or printed in colours that nature ne'er had,
With patterns and pictures, like flowers or spots,
Or weird-coloured animals covered in dots,
And sometimes the colours are woven just right
So the shading will change as it moves in the light
Or the colour is deep and the subtle shades fight
So you've blue in the daytime and purple at night,
And sometimes the colours don't really combine,
But I like the clashes, the contrast sublime,
And my husband complains 'cause they're way out of line,
But I wear them, and stand out, because they are mine,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I revel in tactile, I live for the touch,
The feel of the fabric is almost too much,
They all feel quite different, they all have their way
Of making your fingers feel good for a day,
There's nothing quite like the firm feeling you find
With a good linen woven with crispness in mind,
It's hard to believe that a fabric so white
Could come from a reed that is dingy to sight
And then sits in a pit full of water to rot,
Then it's beaten and battered and squished quite a lot,
Then mixed with a whitener and left in a pot,
And drawn into threads (and there mustn't be knots),
And the choices of weave, they're so many and vast,
There's the fine one that's ironed state never will last,
Or the coarse woven linen, or napkins which pass
Through the hard wash and dryer, yet come white at last,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I love making patterns, or adding a bit,
Or stitching in threads till my eye's most unfit,
I've manifold projects and ideas and more
Till the spare room has more than the local craft store
And there's one for the train and there's one for the home
And there's one that's for holidays (too big to roam)
And there's one that I'd like to do, but for the fear
That it's likely to take me about seven years
It's a cross-stitch that's made on a linen so fine
That there's twenty-eight stitches on each one-inch line
And the flosses (the threads) must be blended and twined
And I think that to try it will make me go blind,
And the family know me and know my small sin
Of buying some more at each craft fair I'm in,
So they watch me, they stop me, but they never win
And my stash grows still fat while my wallet grows thin
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I don't just buy things, you know - sometimes I do
Really manage to see a long project right through.
I've knitted a swathe of good jumpers for those
That I think of as family, friends and some foes...
There's Geoffrey's good jumper I knitted a while
It took twenty-eight colours, but now it has style,
And several for Adam, and one for his dad
And one for my brother and one I have had,
And baby-clothes: easy, because they are small
You can finish them quickly and just use two balls
And the patterns are simple, they're no time at all,
You can start it at Central, it's done by the Falls
And sometimes the patterns are lacy and sweet,
But they catch in the fingers and hassle the feet,
So I'd much rather knit up a sweater complete
And the parents are grateful, whetever the feat,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
My husband and I share this passion in parts,
It's one of the things we found out at the start,
We've similar taste when it comes to the smell
And the feel and the look and the contact as well,
We both have a loving for protein that comes
From the glands that are found in a small silkworm's bum,
They extrude the substance, it makes their cocoon,
We take it and spin it and set up a loom,
The silk that results can be many a kind
It can slide softly satin or crinkle, or bind,
It can rustle and stand on its own, or you'll find
That it drapes and embraces, a feeling sublime,
We've pieces and lengths, and we've got not a few
Of the silks that an emperor's daughter might use,
And we've probably more than we'll need to get through,
But then maybe we'll buy just another - or two,
And yes, you could call it a passion.
I have a passion - oh yes.
I have a passion - oh my.
I have a passion, a deep-rooted passion,
A lusting for fabrics of colour and fashion,
And money to buy them and places to stash them,
I've more than a partner, he also must have them,
And maybe we'll use them and maybe we'll flash them
and sew them and wear them - but we'll never trash them,
And yes, you could call it a passion.