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Wollerige vers

Meer as 800 vrywilligers is tans besig om vir die Britse Poetry Society se eeufeesvieringe ‘n reusagtige gedig te brei. Elkeen van die vrywilligers se taak is om ‘n bepaalde letter van die alfabet op ‘n vierkant van 12″ by 12″ te brei. “A poem is often a small thing that packs a larger punch than its scale suggests – it’s not big and shouty. The idea of a poem with scale is interesting – it’s saying look how big, how important this poem is, and how many people’s lives it’s reached,” het Judith Palmer, direkteur van die Poetry Sociey, aan The Guardian se verslaggewer gesê en bygevoeg dat brei eintlik in vele opsigte met die maak van ‘n gedig ooreenstem: “With poetry and with knitting, you work line by line, and if something goes wrong you have to unravel it.”

Die voltooide gedig sal in Oktober, tydens die Society se feesvieringe, onthul word. Presies watter gedig dit gaan wees, is egter tot dan ‘n geheim. Uiteraard is daar heelwat spekulasie oor watter gedig dit is waaraan gebrei word: Jo Shapcott, Seamus Heaney en Emily Dickinson het immers almal gedigte oor brei geskryf. Ook Auden, Eliot, Verlaine en Betjeman word genoem, maar dit wil tog voorkom asof die meeste spekulante dit eens is dat die gedig wat in Oktober onthul gaan word, WB Yeats se “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” sal wees, met daardie onvergeetlike slotreëls: “I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

Nou ja, toe. Net die tyd sal leer of dit dié lieflike vers deur een van die klassieke meesters sal wees, of dalk Milton se “Paradise Lost”, maar vir jou leesplesier vanoggend, ‘n toepaslike vers deur die Walliese digter Gwyneth Lewis. Lekker lees.

En hou maar vandag die stekies eweredig by mekaar op die breipen, hoor.

Mooi bly.

LE

HOW TO KNIT A POEM

 

The whole thing starts with a single knot
and needles. A word and pen. Tie a loop
in nothing. Look at it. Cast on, repeat

the procedure till you have a line
that you can work with.
It’s a pattern made of relation alone,

my patience, my rhythm, till empty bights
create a fabric that can be worn,
if you’re lucky and practised. It’s never too late

to pick up dropped stitches, each hole a clue
to something that might be bothering you,
though I link mine with ribbons and pretend

I meant them to happen. I make a net
of meaning that I carry round
portable, to work on sound

in trains and terrible waiting rooms.
It’s thought in action. It redeems
odd corners of disposable time,

making them fashion. It’s the kind of work
that keeps you together. The neck’s too tight,
but tell me honestly: How do I look?

 

© Gwyneth Lewis