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Hazel Hall, needle, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeHazel Hall

Late Sewing

There is nothing new in what is said By either a needle or a thread : Stitch, says a needle, Stitch, says the thread: Stitch for the living; stitch for the dead; All seams measure the same. Garb for the living is light and gay. While that for the dead is a shrouding grey. But all things match on a later day When little worm-stitches in the clay Finish all seams the same.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

Inanimate

A needle has no memories; Less than the stir of frozen trees, Than unheard rain falling on stone, Are the seams that it has known.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

The Long Day

I am sewing out my sorrow, Like a thread, wearing it thin; It will be old and frayed to-morrow. Needle, turn out; needle, turn in. Sorrow's thread is a long thread. Needle, one stitch; needle, two. And sorrow's thread is a strong thread, But I will wear it through. Then not only will sorrow Be old and thin and frayed; But I shall have to-morrow Something sorrow has made.
SadHazel Hall

My Needle's Thread

My needle's thread is long and slow; As a needle goes a thread must go, And lame and blind a needle is, Weighed with a mood's profundities. My needle's thread is long and slack; A thread must travel a needle's track. And a needle leads an aimless course Labouring against the force Of gathering thought . . . A needle's thread will not be taut When every stitch is made to feel Pressure upon the needle's steel Of coldly flowing reality. Fluent as waters that find the sea. My needle's thread is long and slack; A needle is foiled and driven back
InspiredHazel Hall

Made of Crepe de Chine

A needle running in white crepe de chine Is not the frail servant of utility It was designed to be; It is an arrow of silver sunlight Plunging with a waterfall. And hands moving in white crepe de chine Are not slaves of the precedent That governs them; They are the crouching women of a fountain, Who have sprung from marble into life To bathe ecstatically In the brimming basin.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

Paths

Needle, you make me remember things . . A path through a wood that ran like wine, A turn, and the bubbling smell that clings Close as breath to the lips of springs Where the sun is sprinkled fine. Needle, you have a path to run Where never the boughs of trees have met And never has seeped the rain of the sun; But long is the way you have just begun . . Needle, you make me forget.
CheerfulHazel Hall

Puzzled Stitches

Needle, running in and out, In and out, in and out. Do you know what you're about, In and out, in and out? Fingers, going to and fro, To and fro, to and fro. Do you know the path you go. To and fro, to and fro? I might tell you why you're taking Such good stitches: You are making Out of linen, fine as breaking Ocean-spray upon a bluff, Pleating for a Bishop's cuff! I might make you understand That a Bishop's white, white hand, Because of you, will be more fair,
ContemplativeHazel Hall

Heavy Threads

When the dawn unfolds like a bolt of ribbon Thrown through my window, I know that hours of light Are about to thrust themselves into me Like omnivorous needles into listless cloth, Threaded with the heavy colours of the sun. They seem altogether too eager To embroider this thing of mine, My Day, Into the strict patterns of an altar cloth; Or at least to stitch it into a useful garment. But I know they will do nothing of the kind. They will prick away. And when they are through with it It will look like the patch quilt my grandmother made When she was learning to sew.
DreamyHazel Hall

Seams

I was sewing a seam one day — Just this way — Flashing four silver stitches there With thread, like this, fine as a hair. And then four here, and there again, When The seam I sewed dropped out of sight I saw the sea come rustling in, Big and grey, windy and bright . . . Then my thread that was as thin As hair, tangled up like smoke And broke. I threaded up my needle, then — Four here, four there, and here again.
ContemplativeHazel Hall

Bead Work

Restless needle, where my beads Whip with colour, roll like seeds. Dive, and pick up one and one. One and one till we are done; And fasten each one firm and true Where the pattern tells you to — One and one, and one and one. One and one, and one and one — Flying needle, as you run. As you pick up the lobes of light Mind you guide each sparkle right; Mind this tawny brown you choose, Shading it with light wood hues, When you shape the curving rim Of this great basket, on whose brim Heap the designated green.

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