Poem: The Tailor’s Craft

The Tailor’s Craft

It is slow work.
Cutting the cloth. Fitting it
just so.

Sometimes, the edges do not match
and you do it
again.

Then the sewing.
This kind of work, bespoke
does not use machines.

It is handwork.
Thread after thread,
careful, tiny, regular stitches.
one after the other,
much of it monotonous.

Mistakes are made, often
and you go back. You undo.
You begin again,

trying not to measure time,
for time is not the object.
The object is the next pull of the thread,

No more.
No less.
A mesmerizing madness. Meditation,

A belief in the beginning that all this rough
cloth and thread, will become something
that actually fits you

perfectly.

About this poem.

About crafting a life. About tailoring, or any artistic endeavor.

The picture was taken at the Hancock Shaker Village, in Mass.

Tom

2 comments

  1. When my fingers were more nimble and my eyes sharper, I spent a lot of hours hand sewing things. I would turn on a documentary (I actually listened to a piece on the evolution of the toilet, more than once) or a lengthy movie and rest my mind. I miss that therapy. Thank you for reminding me of how it goes.

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