As a child, if I remember correctly, my mother had knitting needles in her hands most everings. There was always something being knitted. As much as I liked the idea of a finsihed sweater/pullover/jumper, the first trying on always had its challenges! I guess I had a “big” head and after much exertion on pulling it over I dreaded how we (the operative word) could pull it off! I have memories of neck bands being altered, stretched, and a few stitches added – better that than have to visit the Dr. for some stitches! Liz Lochhead captures an age of knitting that until quite recently we thought had disappeared for ever. Not so! A brief introduction to Liz Lochhead b.1947 in Criagneuk, a former mining village just outside Motherwell, Lanarkshire and grew up in a nearby mining village of Newarthill. She is well regarded as a poet, playwright, translator and broadcaster and between 2011 and 2016 she was the Makar, or National Poet of Scotland. In the coming weeks I will be sharing two additional poems from her collection.
For my Grandmother Knitting
There is no need they say
but the needles still move
their rhythms in the working of your hands
as easily
as if your hands
were once again those sure and skilful hands
of the fisher-girl.
You are old now
and your grasp of things is not so good
but master of your moments then
deft and swift
you slit the still-ticking quick silver fish.
Hard work it was too
of necessity.
But now they say there is no need
as the needles move
in the working of your hands
once the hands of the bride
with the hand-span waist
once the hands of the miner’s wife
who scrubbed his back
in a tin bath by the coal fire
once the hands of the mother
of six who made do and mended
scraped and slaved slapped sometimes
when necessary.
But now they say there is no need
the kids they say grandma
have too much already
more than they can wear
too many scarves and cardigans –
gran you do too much
there’s no necessity…
At your window you wave
them goodbye Sunday.
With your painful hands
big on shrunken wrists.
Swollen-jointed. Red. Arthritic. Old.
But the needles still move
their rhythms in the working of your hands
easily
as if your hands remembered
of their own accord the pattern
as if your hands had forgotten
how to stop. Liz Lochhead from A Choosing: Selected Poems (Polygon 2011)
Prayer:
Lord God,
your pattern for living
is made up from a few simple words of guidance.
Honor your parents, do not covet,
forgive your enemies, love your neighbor,
welcome the stranger, feed the hunrgry, cloth the naked,
give the thirsty something to drink.
Lord God, so soon we forget, so slow to remember,
slower still to care for the least as we busy ourselves
fussing over those we consider more important.
Help us to live in tune with the rhythms of the gospel
which bind together grace, love, mercy, peace.
and
Hope. Amen.
