Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Gwyneth Lewis

HYPNOSIS KNITTING

HYPNOSIS KNITTING

HYPNOSIS KNITTING

A day of wordless misery,
thorns in the heart
that refuse to budge.

No matter, I’m keeping company
with myself, though hurting,
redeeming time that was torturing me.

My grandmother’s craftwork,
I suddenly see,
was self-medication,

her fanciest knitwear
anti-depressant hosiery:
a stance against her melancholy.

This pattern wants only rhythm from me:
no judging, no knowing,
just moving on

into a future. I’m working three
axes. First a new personality
made from my patience.

Second, a scarf
composed in calm,
a respite from my usual self-harm.

The third is my finest.
Look! I’ve unpicked
myself from my worry, a delicate stitch

into the present. No one can see
this last. Mindfulness charges the air,
arrays me in intricate gossamer.
Close

HYPNOSIS KNITTING

A day of wordless misery,
thorns in the heart
that refuse to budge.

No matter, I’m keeping company
with myself, though hurting,
redeeming time that was torturing me.

My grandmother’s craftwork,
I suddenly see,
was self-medication,

her fanciest knitwear
anti-depressant hosiery:
a stance against her melancholy.

This pattern wants only rhythm from me:
no judging, no knowing,
just moving on

into a future. I’m working three
axes. First a new personality
made from my patience.

Second, a scarf
composed in calm,
a respite from my usual self-harm.

The third is my finest.
Look! I’ve unpicked
myself from my worry, a delicate stitch

into the present. No one can see
this last. Mindfulness charges the air,
arrays me in intricate gossamer.

HYPNOSIS KNITTING

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère