-<>-<>-<>- POEMS about Weavers and Weaving -<>-<>-<>-/title> <META http-equiv=Content-Type content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> <META NAME="Description" CONTENT="Weaving, introduction to weaving techniques, ideas and stimuli for ablebodied and disabled people"> <META NAME="Rating" CONTENT="arts and crafts, weaving"> <META NAME="Keywords" CONTENT="weaving, weaving looms, hand loom weaver, braids, braid weaving, inkle loom, tablet weaving,table-loom, fun weaves,history and art of weaving, lessons, information"> <META NAME="Title" CONTENT="weaving - the weavers shed"> <META name="language"CONTENT="english,german,french,GB,DE,FR" > <META NAME="distribution" CONTENT="global" >  <SCRIPT language="JavaScript"> function movepic(img_name,img_src) { document[img_name].src=img_src; } </SCRIPT> <style> td{color:#0066CC; font-family:berlin sans fb;font-size:18;} A { font-family:berlin sans fb; text-weight:bold; text-decoration:none;font-size:20;} A:link{color:#3333FF;text-decoration:none;} A:visited{color:#3333FF;text-decoration:none;} A:active{color:#3333ff;text-decoration:none;} A:hover{color:#333399;text-decoration:underline overline;} </style>  <script language=javascript> imgNames = new Array( "images/flying_shuttle_trans3.gif", "images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif" ) loadImgs = new Array() for(i=0; i < imgNames.length; i++) { loadImgs[i] = new Image; loadImgs[i].src = imgNames[i]; } </script>  </head> <body bgcolor="#018fbe"> <center> <table border="4" background="images/weav_bg_bg_01.gif" bordercolor="#01698b" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="750" height=""> <tr><td> <table border="2" bordercolor="#01afe9" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="15" width="100%" height="100%"> <tr><td> <table border="0" bordercolor="#c0c0c0" cellspacing="2" cellpadding="2" width="100%" height="40px"> <tr> <td>Choose other "art" about weavers? <a href="index_art.html" onmouseover="movepic('button2','images/flying_shuttle_trans3.gif')" onmouseout="movepic('button2','images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif')"> <img NAME="button2" src="images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif" width="130" height="25" alt="" border="0"> </a></td> <td align="right">Return to the weaver's shed? <a href="weavers_shed_2.html" onmouseover="movepic('button1','images/flying_shuttle_trans3.gif')" onmouseout="movepic('button1','images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif')"> <img NAME="button1" src="images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif" width="130" height="25" alt="" border="0"> </a></td> </tr> </table> <h2>Weaving in POEMS and SONGS</h2> It was a 'challenge' to find these, no search engine lists "poems about weaving and weavers", but I did find some... such texts are so much part of the social history of a country, and there must be hundreds which I have not discovered. If you know of other poems linked to 'weaving' please please send me the website URL, I'm sure everybody will be glad to discover works from around the world. Thank you. <a href=#metatis>L'araigné et le métier à tisser</a> <img src="images/75-75spacer.gif" width="200" height="1" alt="" border="0"> << Click on a title to view <dd><a href=#room>Spider in the room</a> <dd><dd><a href=#hubbard>Old mother Hubbard</a> <dd><dd><dd><a href=#children>Spiderwoman's children</a> <dd><dd><dd><dd><a href=#house>Housewifery</a> <dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><a href=#lady>The Lady of Shallot</a> <dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><a href=#></a> <dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><dd><a href=#></a> <a name=#metatis></a> <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> a French poem about a spider and a weaving loom, I did not find who wrote it. From : http://ph-chp.timone.univ-mrs.fr/lop.html <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> L'Araignée et le Métier à tisser Une Araignée se plaignit. Elle alla voir Minerve Et lui dit : Que l'on prenne ma toile m'énerve, Je suis sans cesse dérangée! Minerve l'envoya Dans le monde de la destinée. Notre prétentieuse tisseuse observa que l'on n' élevait plus d'araignées pour tisser Mais qu' au contraire on les maltraitait et les écrasait! Elle s'en fut demander à une alliée Ce qui se passait, - Mon amie , il existe une Machine à tisser pour nous remplacer. L'araignée alla chercher cette Machine à tisser : - Sais-tu donc aussi bien et aussi vite tisser ? - Faisons une course pour nous départager ! Le Métier à tisser eut terminé bien avant elle. L'Araignée s'arrêta aussitôt sans avoir terminé et le Métier à tisser, ayant bon cœur dit- elle: - Tout n'est pas perdu ma commère, tâtons nos tissus ! Ils étaient, malheureusement, Tous deux égaux et l'Araignée fut vaincue! Elle s'était tant épuisée qu'elle ne put jamais, maintenant, Recommencer à tisser comme antan Et elle regretta son bon pays qu'elle avait tant haï. Si on est trop prétentieux, il peut nous arriver malheur, Et comme le métier à tisser, il faut avoir bon cœur ! <center> <table width="70%"> <tr><td> <a name=#children></a>  <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> A Navaho writer, Hershman John, put the spider woman story into a modern context. Thankyou for allowing me to use the poem! See this and more at: http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Parthenon/7460/spiderwoman.html <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> Spider Woman's Children Each day she cards wool, Releasing aromas of wet lambs. She sings her song slowly for her sheep, For her rug, for her hands, for the sun above and for her mother who taught her the words so long ago... "House made of dawn House made of evening light House made of dark cloud House made of pollen..." Másáni, Grandma's hogan sits alone Near the lowly adobe bluffs. Loneliness overtakes the desert lands As the night crawls from the east. Her heart lingers for companionship. She soaks wool in the eyes of Spider Woman, The weaver of creation, weaving together Brown, yellow, black, white and red-- Shade of her soul-self. She pulls spindled threads Intertwining them through the web-loom And the desert storms are caught Within the geometric patterns, White clouds and black lightning and water beetles. None of her twelve children ever return Only when money asks them to. They come to take her hard work, her beauty. "In beauty it is finished, thank you, creator." Without ears, they are like prairie dogs, They don't understand her anymore and cry wants. Each has lost her teachings and tongue. Her mind wants to reach out "Please, stay...talk to me, my grandchildren." Coming from limbo beyond the Rainbow's blessings They smile as payment for robbing her And quickly return to their burrows Far to the cold north, Los Angeles and Phoenix... Into the night her weaving comb Locks her tears into the wefts of wool, The much needed rain in the storm pattern rug. Each night she cards wool, Releasing the aromas of wet lambs. </td></tr></table> </center> <a name=#room></a> <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> A nice rhyme about spiders webs in a room,by Jamie Sexton Holm in Star Gatherer from: http://www.applehollow.com/ahf-s.html <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> <center>Serenely on her tiny loom she weaves her web with careful art. And who am I, with meddling broom to send it's loveliness apart? For I, who am a weaver, too, look on that intricate design, And know its deft embroideries are far more beautiful than mine. I stay my hand, for when I see those fairy tapestries agleam, How can I wantonly destroy a fellow craftsman's dearest dream? So I must lay aside my broom, and when my neighbors come to call I'll draw the blinds, and in the gloom they'll never see those webs at all! </center> <a name=#hubbard></a> <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> The well-known nursery rhyme, source: Pictures and Stories from Forgotten Children's Books, Amazon.uk, Amazon.ca Arnold Arnold Dover Pulications 1969. found on : http://www.allfiberarts.com <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> Old Mother Hubbard Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard To get the poor dog a bone; But when she got there the cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none. She went to the baker's to buy him some bread, When she came back the dog was dead. Ah! My poor dog, she cried, oh what shall I do? You were always my pride - none equal to you. She went to the undertaker's to buy him a coffin, When she came back, the dog was laughing. Now how this can be quite puzzles my brain, I am pleased to see you alive once again. She went to the barber's to buy him a wig, When she came back he was dancing a jig. O, you dear merry grig, how nicely you're prancing; Then she held up the wig, and he began dancing. She went to the seamstress to buy him some linen, When she came back the dog was spinning. The reel when 'twas done, was wove into a shirt, Which served to protect him from weather and dirt. <a name=#house></a>  <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> An old poem, found on : http://www.geocities.com/bethpanda/house.html <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> <center><h2>Housewifery</h2></center></CENTER> <LEFT>Make me, O Lord, Thy spinning-wheel complete. <UL>Thy holy Word my distaff make for me;</UL> Make mine affections Thy swift flyers neat; <UL>And make my soul Thy holy spool to be; My conversation make to by Thy reel, And reel the yarn thereon spun of Thy wheel.</UL> Make me Thy loom, then; knit therein this twine; <UL>And make Thy Holy Spirit, Lord, wind quills.</UL> Then weave the web Thyself. The yarn is fine. <UL>Thine ordinances make my fulling mills. Then dye the same in heavenly colors choice, All pinked with varnished flowers of paradise.</UL> Then clothe therewith mine understanding will, <UL>Affections, judgement, conscience, memory,</UL> My words and actions, that their shine may fill My ways with glory and Thee glorify. <UL>Then mine apparel shall display before Ye That I am clothed in holy robes for glory.</UL></LEFT> <RIGHT>Edward Thomas (1642-1729)</RIGHT> <a name=#lady></a> <center> <table width="70%"> <tr><td> <hr size="5" width="75%" color=""> A very long poem, "The Lady Of Shallot". I found it on above website. but also on : http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Woods/7831/shallot.html The "painting" on the wall in the weaver's shed has this title. <hr size="2" width="50%" color=""> The Lady of Shallot On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot. And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shallot. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shallot. By the margin, willow-veiled, Slide the heavy barges trailed By slow horses; and unhailed The shallot flitteth silken-veiled Skimming down to Camelot. But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shallot? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot. And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shallot. " There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down on Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shallot. And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot. There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shallot. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-haired page in crimson clad, Goes on to towered Camelot. And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shallot. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot. Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed: "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shallot. A bowshot from her bower eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling through the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shallot. The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot. And from his blazoned baldrick slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shallot. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often through the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shallot. His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; On burnished hooves his war horse trode; From underneath his helmet flowed His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra", by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse has come upon me" cried The Lady of Shallot. In the stormy east wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot. Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shallot. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shallot. Lying, robed in snowy white - The leaves upon her falling light- Through the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot. And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shallot. Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the waterside, Singing in her song she slowly died, The Lady of Shallot. Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shallot. Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot. But Lancelot mused a little space; He said "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace The Lady of Shallot". <center> </td> </tr> </table> </center> °`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´°`´° <style> #watermark { font-family:Arial; font-size:8pt; color:FFFFFF; } .top{color:#000000;font-size:10px;} </style> <DIV id="waterMark" style="position:absolute"><a href="#" onClick="window.scrollTo(500,500)"><img src="images/flying_shuttle_trans2.gif" width="80" height="13"border="0"> <center>Top of page</center></a></DIV> <script language="JavaScript1.2">  </script> </body> </html>  <script src="/fs_img/js/pt.js" type="text/javascript"></script>   <script type="text/javascript">  </script>

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