Tribal Song

Sunlight streams

Through antiqued doors

Dusty panes

Shed sparing light.

 

Reds richly caught

In a golden glow

Spilled rubies

Amethysts, topaz.

 

Hand made

Man made

Flat weave

Tufted

Tribal songs

Evolved in desert dust.

 

Weft and warp

Taut, ayak

Knotted.

 

Colours of abrash.

Kashan, Sirjan

Kilim, Konia

Patterns of a people.

 

Sumack sacks

Silken prayers.

Ottoman

Ushak.

 

Stylised

Compartmentalised

Animals and flowers

Tree of Life.

 

Living Art.

 

copyright: a.a.gallagher:

all rights reserved

September 1999

To see for more poetry written by me please check the following links:

http://hubpages.com/hub/An-Australian-Poem--Sun-Darts

http://hubpages.com/hub/HubMob-Weekly-Topic-A-Revolutionary-Christmas-In-Rhythm--Rhyme

http://hubpages.com/hub/The-Messenger

http://hubpages.com/hub/Dispossession

 

I had been at the Albert Hall (a beautiful building built in 1923) in Canberra and was struck afresh by the many aspects of beauty around me. The heritage building, the height of the windows, the old burgundy velvet curtains with the soft, white under curtain gently moving in the breeze. And of course the total beauty of the many persian carpets displayed there. Diffused sunlight gently was struggling through the old leadlight windows with the muted be-jewelled colours of the rugs adding to the overall ambience; I felt that I had maybe stumbled into Alladin's cave and found a mythical long-lost jewellery trunk of huge dimensions.

So after thinking about the beauty of these glorious rugs and the people who make them I decided to write the above poem in their honour.

To be honest I have a bit of a passion for Persian Rugs - I just love them - the colours, the designs, the tribal aspect, the generational stories they tell, and the village history woven into them. And it seems to me that after you buy a carpet you just cannot stop at one - you keep falling in love with another and yet another. Some people keep on buying rugs long after they run out of room and they just pile one on top of the other, changing them around every so often. Maybe a bit obsessional.

I remember some time ago being told a story by a rug buyer working in Iran, who said that one day he had been in the markets checking out the rugs he was buying to bring back to Australia, when some desert tribal people came in from the desert with a rug that a member of their nomadic tribe had woven. It had been 6 years in the weaving and had been packed and unpacked as many time as the desert camps had been broken up, moved and re-erected.

The rug was absolutely filthy, you could neither see the design nor colour.

The rug was sold by the nomad, bought by the buyer, and handed over unwashed, stiffened by the dirt and sands of the Sahara plus the constant handling and travel. Amazingly, after the rug was washed it could be seen that there was not one glitch in the design, the work was perfect, the colours (with the dirt of years removed) glowing. These designs are such an integral part of each village weaver's hereditary knowledge that they are quite often, able to weave their rugs to the village design without actually seeing how the patterns fall. Maybe this is where the reference to the fabled magic flying carpet comes from.

I find this so totally amazing - I could not envisage trying to knit a sweater without looking at the stitches closely, counting everything in sight while still hoping that at the end of my effort, all will be well.

copyright: a.a.gallagher 2008