Ian Davidson’s most recent publications are From a Council House in Connacht (Oystercatcher 2021) and By Tiny Twisting Ways (Aquifer 2021). His New and Selected Poems were published by Shearsman in March 2022. He also writes about poetry, and recent essays have been published or are forthcoming on Diane di Prima, Lenore Kandel and Tom Pickard. His research articles and monographs follow a long term project on space and mobility in modern and contemporary writing. Ian Davidson works at UCD in Dublin, Ireland and lives on a small farm in County Mayo.
Lacemakers
Part 1
To the thin soil
and stony mountains
amongst scattered
crops and sheep
the gentry brought
samples of lace
from honeymoons or holidays
in Italy or France.
Equipped with bobbins
and cotton the tenants sat
hands dancing
to the rhythm
the patterns dictated
punctuated by shifting pins
making representations
of presence and absence
casting a wide net
lacing up the landscape
holes lacking origins,
like sheep strung out,
or broken rays of light
finding space in stone walls
illuminating spun threads
in a darkened room.
Lace, as much fresh air
as material,
or froth on the sea,
a kit for self-improvement,
fed to cottagers
instead of food or good land
exploiting the intricacy
of clever hands
and sharp eyes
squinting in the half dark.
Part 2
It is epiphany,
the lights of Christmas
go dark
in the hills where we work,
side by side, stitching rocks
to make a causeway
for animals to find shelter
across soil slowly filling with water
until like a sponge, giving out.
Figures of lace still
cover the linen ground,
holes are tunnels into the past,
a permeable membrane,
stuff you can walk straight through.
We work,
dragging an entanglement
unable to see clearly
the whole picture,
threads still loose
like twine from the van door
or wisps of hay
clinging to a hat.
Part 3
In the damp cottages and cabins
where lace was made
threads stayed soft.
No problem with
brittle cotton drying
in the sun
on the Atlantic seabord,
where work is always supple.
Lace falls like a cloud
its intricate design
constructed with tension,
always on the move,
spinning or hooked,
pulled and drawn tight
like a noose, around the necks
of those who could afford it.
Lace takes its place in a
countryside where cottagers
have their hands on the handles
of detonators that might
blow holes in an environment
to which they hold the means
of savior and destruction
and running through it all
the thin cotton like roots
that bind the surface
as the worn bobbins
passed from hand to hand
are a lullaby for a sleeping child
a step for the dance and
the rhythm of walking feet.
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