In Praise of Hands

Unknown

In Praise of Hands

The heart may falter but the hand goes on.

Wiser than heartbreak, the cool, eyeless hand

Makes bread, makes mortar, lays the cornerstone,

Tills the slow-answering land.

At eight o'clock the mothers plait and part

Their daughters' hair. The factory whistles rise,

The streets grow vocal. Here, bewildered heart,

Your evident answer lies.

Yesterday dwindles while tomorrow grows.

Today is ours - importunate and soon.

Quick, hands! To work! How fast the morning goes.

The whistles blow for noon.

Jessica Nelson North


"The heart may falter but the hand goes on." I wonder if this is parallel to what the caterpillar does. Weaving a garment, constructing a hibernating-house, a renewal chamber - moving unthinkingly according to some instinct or habit or body-knowledge. Sometimes, in deep grief or shock or confusion/fear, the body acts of itself. The feet bring us to old places, the hands lift and move, perform intricate tasks that we watch as if from a great distance. The body continues forward while the mind is motionless. Hidden and still, though surrounded by bustle, by noise and commotion. What is this state? It's not quite paralysis, it's not quite numbness - what is it? And at some point, the bewildered heart comes to, recognizes the passing time, and joins the hands at their work.








 

Spring's Witch

Catrin Welz-Stein

Spring's Witch

I wait out winter plagued by your ghost -

impatient rains whisper, winds rumour you,

caressing the skins at my windows,

speaking into the ears of my chimneys:

She's coming, says the rains.

As before, wind says.

And you do, one March day:

loud and chaotic, incanting your "oh's",

no prim Primavera, no flowers-in-toes,

but cackling as you cast off your clothes.

She's here, say the rains.

As before, wind says.

Your black hair is treacled by the rain.

You raise the wand and you conjure again

whatever love I have for living

from this world's rebirth in spring.

She's leaving, say the rains.

Gone, gone, wind says.

Brian McCabe

“You conjure again whatever love I have for living.” Spring is magic. So if in this poem the rain talks, the wind talks, and chimneys have ears, it shouldn’t surprise us. This is just the kind of thing that goes on in a world where sunlight draws up colour and fragrance from dead black ground. And it's entirely true, feeling the sun on my shoulder as I walk, I think, "There it is again, everyday overflowing magic."