An evening of Myth and Poetry
February 1, 2017 in Trinidad, CO
Held within the Weave
There is a making to be done in fiction writing, a weaving together with pen or keyboard or voice. It is creation of a place where the weft of fancy meets the warp of circumstance, textile materialized from the working of the beautiful within the profane. Strands are spun from treacherous territory and safe places; torture and ease are battened together in row upon row.
All the while, it teaches the writer lessons not found anywhere else. Sat here, at the loom of storytelling, she's not so much author as she is witness and scribe, guiding the bobbin, certainly, but the beam winds thick with yardage because of the collaboration with her imaginary friends .
And when deeper writing has to give way to 'real life' for a time, there is poetry. A poem is a little work, a small square of cloth stretched on a hoop, the handkerchief that is taken to be embroidered upon along the way. This snippet of verse allows for a smaller look, a thought jotted down to be saved for later, an intimate stitching that offers the freedom of art when there's no time to wind a warp-beam or to string the heddles.
In prose or poetry though, the weaving lends the maker a shawl to ward off the chill, a beautiful flash of color tucked into sleeve or pocket or bosom. But, make no mistake, it is also the tangle of strands, the chew of moths, the fade of colors and, in service of the story, the writer must work diligently with nimble fingers, compelled inexplicably forward, each throw of the shuttle and tug of the needle, at once a broken heart and the dancing of a thousand joyous feet.
©2016 Annette Meserve