Threading Battle Lines

Note: This poem was created as a performance piece for Poetic Threads: Lady and the Unicorn. Actions are noted by italics.

 

Each thread is its own story

everything woven

is first a lonely particle

before collectively

netted

embedded

in our physical selves

we are the same matter

as that which sits in here (heart)

in here (head)

to separate these three

is what masks humanity

from itself

- what makes us ugly

 

Before this (tapestry), there is:

the feeding of sheep

the dying of wool

the growing of cotton

the mulberry leaves and cultivating worms

the raw fibre of thread

spinning by hand

a universe twisting

in the palms of goddesses

trying to colour

the dreams in our heads

so when our eyes are closed

and our breathing has slowed

those parts disjointed

can finally flow

 

How much of history

is fantasy threaded

retold in those voices

so often conflated

a conflagration of our imaginations?

 

To find the truth

I close my eyes

summon your image

transported across planes

infinite and brimming

 

first I hear:

embers burning

the low crackle of coal

or wood in the stove

the whisper of wheels spinning

yarn of all colours

rain beading on roofs

pooling and dripping

outside misted windows

onto pale yellow primrose

 

I smell wool  

rung of its water

like damp moss

in the forests

we all once frolicked

freedom a knowing

instead of destination

the scent of endeavours sweat

is in here too

a mild reminder

of all that you do

 

I can taste

the garlic which hangs

besides onions and other

shelves laden

with the burden of your

unpaid labour:

jam jars and pickled pieces

smoked meats and rolled dough

your hands the creators tool

making and crafting

for all around you

 

(this, the place,

you’ve been told you belong

this state of being

can only be strong)

 

I see

your fingers knotted

working well beyond dark

then from early morning

creating the canvas on which

you shed your stories

 

If only I could touch

your needle and thread

your looms and your tools

hold your fingers still working

in front of dying embers

 

to better witness

these mysteries yielded

to cover the walls and the beds

of all of your daughters

quilts - battle flags

to warn of what’s coming

drumming magic in the chambers

of our heart’s inherent brilliance

The wars yet lost and won

This is your existence

Each square an imprint

Pressed deeper

a chart into the universe’s knowing

 

So why am I standing here

in front of this -

his work glorified

using the grandmasters pen

to spin fables

Tales told to trap beauty

lure the beast that is lonely

the gouged hole

made by a horn

magic, phallic and prone to brutality

 

How much of the natural world

is really here?

The stink, the whiskers

the manure and rot.

What of the constructs

of these man-made myths

selling their stories

as though they were truth

building memorials for fairytales

fantasies of the feminine

seen through the prism

of the lustful degenerate

 

 (TOUCH)

Here she holds both banner and horn

strength in her stance

bold in her form

what of the women

who have no need for unicorns?

who have known they’re imagined

like the gift of virginity

 

what of the unicorns

still seeking out their virgins

verging on a violence not evident

in a tapestry so fantastic

but present in every fibre

of the masculine weight?

 

Just unravel a little corner here

I’ll show you what happens

to the women

who dare to counter those

dominant narratives

 

 (TASTE)

Come closer

let me feed you these stories

rich as they are

in humanities glories

the gory we’ll pretend

doesn’t exist

hide it beneath rich golds

and scarlet berry reds

 

swallow them down

deep in your belly

feel them swell

until you are pregnant

with fables this deadly

 

women use fabrics to share their warnings

whispered secrets between

the matriarch and her daughters

the sisters and her siblings

the witches and the worshippers

 

men use needles

to stitch down lies

perpetuating fallacy

to magnify their lives

 

but let’s feast on the magic

of twisted ideas

as the lion growls

and the servant girl

bends on her knee

we can pretend

that the fig

wasn’t in this Eden

that this Lady

has simply gobbled her demons

 

 (SMELL)

No aroma is strong enough

to mask the stench of prison

no garland pungent enough

to fracture the prism

through which we view

my Lady’s entrapment

amongst a menagerie

desperately seeking

to secure her passions

 

The unicorn is enamoured

by the perfume of her purity,

her virginal continuity

idealising a feminine mystique

created to keep men

and their morals weak

 

The lion erect, strong

a symbol of fidelity

seeking her scent

as he stands vigilantly

by the woman

fitting a mould of desire

still to be shattered

500 years later

 

But what is fidelity?

Vigilance and strength

when applied to the battle lines

of love and the feminine

how much is ownership

the possession of one

the all-consuming passion

devouring who we love

until all that remains

is a skeletal sketch

of who we thought we desired

but perhaps only projected

 

Maybe the monkey

knows something of romance

offering roses

a sickly sweet bouquet

as though all a woman needs

are a few pretty things

in order to be brought

to her weak little knees

 

(HEARING)

I hear all that’s not said

everything uttered

under their breath

women walk

with the world’s words

in their ears

my Lady’s no different

she may be playing

but it’s not music she hears

it’s the cry of the falcon

soaring overhead

screaming a warning

while searching for prey

bones only sing for so long

the fires are still to come

the battles are yet begun

 

 (SIGHT)

This Arcadian site

is almost too much to bear

the unicorn a narcissist

the lion now indifferent

my Lady forlorn

perhaps she is mourning

her freedom to love

beyond the constraints of

what’s been constructed

maybe she’d like to wrench

her lap from the unicorn’s grasp

let go of fallacy

claw back her sanity

instead she’s stuck in this garden

with hardly human company

her tongue stitched in silence

has her voice been stolen?

she may be centre piece

but she’s pure object

which stands true

for women throughout the ages

whether on famous tapestries

or naked on stages

we sit in the gaze of men

their fantasies played out

and nothing ever changes

 

 (MY SOUL DESIRE)

Or maybe right here

we’re witnessing an escape

she’s riding herself

of that ghastly chain

ready to return to  

the world undone

she’s made a decision

she’s plotting a course

to flee the manicured garden

where expectation stalks

and desire hunts

she knows this is no

Garden of Eden

but the blueprint for how

a woman loses freedom

 

Here the battle lines are sewn

so that every generation knows

sacrifice is the woman’s plight

give up everything

to suffer the depths of loss

a sea of depravity

to drown your own desires

prepare to be consumed

devoured

and denied

by your lovers and sons

their brothers and enemies

know that a woman owns nothing

suffering is her place to be

her true reckoning

 

or don’t

 

or don’t

 

and this Lady she doesn’t

she sees this form of love

as total entrapment

a burden to wear

I see her fleeing

feet wet with freedom

running right off this fabric

and out through those doors

I’d throw them right open

and help her escape

watch as the air

lifted her cape

 

 So when I close my eyes

to conjure your image

I know what you wanted

is the opposite of these visions

not the frozen selves

that hang in museums

it’s your stories I crave

not this man-made mausoleum

for female freedom

keep your loom creating

and your wheels spinning

warning women of what happens

when we fall prey

to patriarchal beginnings

 

Each thread is its own story

every woman woven

is first a lonely particle

before collectively

netted

embedded

in our physical selves

we are the same matter

hopes, fears and dust

so tell the Unicorn

the Lion and his cub

all the other animals

in this dense woven scrub

that the Lady has fled

to pursue a new life

a dream far beyond the unicorn’s

virginal little wife