The Weaving

Imagine Penelope at the loom,

The scene on the cloth

Resembling the hall two hours before

When the men that now lie snoring,

Sated with wine and meat —

Traces of which stain their tunics —

Boisterously filled the vault with clamour

Bragging with the spoils of another day

The master was not at home.

 

Grieving inside but sitting, proud and tall,

A maid shielding her from chanced glances —

‘Cause what she ’s going to work

Is risking the thread of her hope —

Penelopes ‘s starting to weave:

Already you can see the calves

Of a man in a fighter’s stance

And one of his enemies cow’ring,

Blood on a cleft on his skull

 

It’s supposed to be Ulysses come back,

Meteing out death to the bold knaves

That invaded his house, mocking his

Mastery and intimidated his wife.

Carefully she ‘s feeding the threads

Into the fabric, bringing to substance

The vision of her hope —

Weaving reality and vision together,

Materializing imagination’s content

In a coloured piece of cloth.

(The real and the imaginery world

Woven into a texture of threads.)

 

Thus the poet feeds his thoughts

Like threads into the weave.