Tweetspeak Poetry

Spanish Lace: Playlist & Poetry Prompt

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Welcome to this month’s theme of Spanish Lace. Lace has been called “the poetry of fashion.” The book, The History of Lace (c. 1875) described Spanish Lace as “…so exquisite…that they were unmistakably the work of those whose time was not money…” Spanish lace was made with linen or delicate silk thread. Its traditional colors, either “blond” or black. Its patterns, a captivating tale drawing on both light and shadow.

For this month’s playlist, we’ve woven together a list of songs—from Spanish lace to lace in general, from the group Paper Lace to some great Spanish love songs. An intoxicating variety of tunes.

 

Poetry Prompt: 

Listen along with us, embrace the apasionados (passionate) sounds, and let them inspire the handcraft of your words.

Write a poem inspired by lace— its patterns, colors, or textures. If you look closely, the intricate pattern of Spanish Lace has a story to tell.

Thanks to our participants in last week’s poetry prompt. We read a unique array of poems from our theme, Doors & Passageways: Dancers & Dreams. Here is a poem from Glynn that we very much enjoyed…

 

Dancers and Dreams

And they dance in swirls
of light and shadow, left
to their dreams because no one
is watching, not even the artist
seeing only his own impressions
imagined, a kind a dream or series
of dreams, asking if the dancers
themselves know, or know to dream,
or even are. Still they swirl and pivot
in dances of light and shadow,
the dance transforming the dreams,

the dance becoming the dreams.

 

Photo by Evelyn Flint/Texture Time, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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Comments

  1. Maureen Doallas says

    Loose Thread

    I hold the lace
    pin to my neck
    line, polished
    steel shaft topped
    by fiery-red head
    of glass

    You pull a loose thread
    tell me tension at the edges
    draws attention to effect

    Reply

  2. Maureen Doallas says

    Red Dust, Spanish Lace

    The bull cannot resist
    the lure of the muleta.

    In his last act, the matador
    makes a pass and turns

    the dust red. Long after
    the bull goes to ground

    the senorita puts a hand
    to her neck, withdraws

    the steel shaft of the lace
    pin securing her mantilla.

    The veil at last dropped,
    he kisses the only blemish

    adorning her olive skin.

    Reply

  3. Richard Maxson says

    My European Education

    Mother loved the Spanish gentleman,
    his sapient ways, his voice that rolled
    off the dark oils of Goya in Seville.

    Altar to altar she followed him,
    with her prayers and lace, her sacrifices,
    broken from their lives like fruit from trees.

    On the veranda she raised her demitasse:
    to Granada, the Alhambra―her dream for us,
    purged of the calloused and quotidian.

    Along the esplanades she followed him,
    gesturing to the ancient relief dropping tears
    over the inspirited coins, its sanguine pool
    quivering as she passed.

    Reply

  4. Elizabeth W. Marshall says

    A Recalling

    Under the froth and foam
    Below the liquid salty sea
    Resting on the ocean floor
    A sunken treasure
    Buried, covered well beneath
    Bears a template
    For all man-sewn lace
    Which
    Makes its way
    Into your
    Bedroom
    Parlor
    Dining room
    And finally
    to the altar
    In 1932.

    I found a fanned flash bit of coral
    Washed up by the sea
    Resting
    There in January’s cold brown sand
    It made me think of you
    And your wedding day.

    It made me
    Remember you.
    The day you bathed yourself in lace.

    A memory dragged up from the bottom.
    Raised up from the dead.

    Reply

  5. Twirlingtoes says

    White shells and miniscule drawings
    Crafted out of thread.
    The calm fingers that lift and drop, lift and drop the bobbins. Pin, pin, pin.
    Sewn to a dress made all of white making delicate shapes on the whispering cloth that dragged. Looking like the day they would wed.

    It is folded, still attatched, put away.
    Now, needing to embellish a gown silver, black, gold and brown it came down. Off it’s throne of glorious day for another.
    Died black to match the new.

    Leaves fall, harvesting time comes and goes. Winters pass. Things and beings age.
    Children beg to use the dainty threads for dolls clothes, bookmarks, and edging gloves.
    Hardly a bit remains. Untouched since those former days.

    Now, a crowd stands in black
    Flowers abound. Tear laced eyes and quiet pitying sounds. “The lady has passed, too sad”
    They all say. And as each dark figure makes their way to the adorned sad box at the front they peek in. To a see a glorious figure with a black chocker of lace.

    Reply

  6. Elizabeth W. Marshall says

    Fingers

    Majorca was small in the rearview
    Mirroring love

    Your hands, wrinkled and worn
    Years of casting your nets

    And my heart
    Wet with salt

    Three blood oranges
    Rolled around the
    Faded red leather
    Backseat of the ’52 Mercedes
    Each one, the fruit of our
    Labor
    My womb

    You laced your fingers in mine
    And Barcelona’s church bells
    Towering above
    Me
    Rang high noon

    I knew your love
    Pearl from grit
    Small in the rear view mirror
    Like Majorca

    Reply

  8. Jane Halasz says

    A Puddle of Fine Merino

    A puddle of fine merino grows in my lap
    Grey, the color of morning fog, and as elusive
    Spun smooth, bouncy, barely noticeable
    Knit one yarn over
    Knit one yarn over
    Knit one yarn over
    The rhythm dances at the edge
    Knit two together yarn over
    Knit two together
    The simple beat repeats around
    Lace grows
    From a puddle waiting to a shadow cast on a winter afternoon

    Reply

  9. Elizabeth marshall says

    Threadbare

    I sat
    Cross-legged
    In repose
    With eyes stone cold
    Glaring in the
    Direction
    Of one worn curtain
    Wearing a night gown
    Filtering the seven thirty
    Am sun
    Made
    Of tattered lace
    Picasso shifts his
    Awkward glance
    In a sad self- portrait framed
    Alternately looking
    At the curtain
    Then at me
    Both of us wearing
    Threadbare lace
    And
    Our faded memories of
    Life in
    Spain.

    Reply

  11. Donna says

    it isn’t the lace
    i treasure
    but the nimble thimbled fingers
    fulfilling a promise to complete

    knot by knot
    strand by strand

    i hope you know i know

    that tat was not easy
    infused with hope
    powered by graceful grit

    it isn’t the lace
    i treasure
    it’s the cotton tangled love

    (I feel compelled to write more~ to put the back story on my blog. What a stirring prompt. Thank you)

    Reply

  12. Julie A. Olson says

    Her Life as Woven Lace

    It’s there woven by time on her face.
    The intricate design
    called life.
    Each seam painstakingly stitched
    as in a piece of artistic
    hand-woven Spanish Lace.

    The beauty in the piece she holds
    has long lost precision
    of edge.
    Retrospection of life,
    disentangled from emotion,
    has worked loose
    it’s intricate thread.

    Recollections are all interlaced,
    with those she loves
    entwined.
    Relationships unraveled, repaired.
    Crisp edges are softened and blurred
    by the Creator’s original design.

    These textures of living are hers.
    All the joys, laughter,
    and tears.
    Abrupt lines yield-
    sway and twirl
    The cogent angle of clarity now curves.

    A life woven as intricate lace.

    Julie A. Olson

    https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2758946767821427057#editor/target=post;postID=1650331975288807161

    Reply

  15. Robbie Pruitt says

    The Apprehensive Victorian

    I hate lace
    It has holes
    Voids and space
    Leaving me exposed
    Vulnerable I suppose
    See through and right to
    This sheepish smirk on my face

    © February 7, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

    Reply

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