The Phantasmagorical Carpet.
When I was too young to know innocence mattered;
Trussed up aloofly as shop door-chimes clattered,
I dreamed chipper trotters who pittered and pattered...
Oh how I longed to be mud-squished and tattered;
To be chosen and kept; to belong.
I didn't much care what beast muddied my thread,
Unfazed by the pet fur I'd been told to dread,
I yearned to be scuffed by a confident tread...
Or at least provide grip for a gong.
But year after year I was left on the wall,
Dotage and sun fading patterns to pall,
My fibers lost luster and started to fall,
When in walked the angel who ended it all,
Whistling an old-timey song.
He tugged me down, coughing from dust he let loose,
Stomped up and down till I looked nice and spruce,
Then rolled up a corpse in me (What strange abuse!)
And wheeled me out (whistling still) in his caboose.
Never'd I thought I would be of such use...
The fishes and I get along.
Coming and going
I began my life in a dimly lit, windowless room with wooden walls and dirt floors. Gnarled hands with small fingers made magic with multicolored threads of wool and wove me into existence. After the last warp and weft, I was snipped, washed and hung to dry. I met the sun, felt the warmth in its light, then the moon and the chill of darkness.
Soon, I was bundled away into a dark space. When I was released, I was carried into this room of marble floors and high ceilings, where I have lain ever since.
I have tracked the passage of time through the myriad windows that surround my home.
And through the little bodies that arrived carried in arms, then were set free to crawl upon me; who quickly began to walk then run, playing with other little ones; but, eventually played no longer, only walked and talked, occasionally loudly, leaving for many moons, rarely returning, sometimes with new little ones. Till all the faces grew lined, the bodies stooped and slow, eventually carried out never to return.
Then it would all begin again. Over and over. Through them all, I remained.
I am not as I once was. The sun has turned my bright colors dull; the many who have enjoyed the beauty and warmth I offered have rubbed away many parts of me. And yet, whoever comes, keeps me here.
And so you find me still, a perpetual silent observer of the lives that come...and go.
silky strands of
crushed by those who walk upon me
the one who said no one needed me here
that said i was a rug worth hanging
maybe i shouldn't have listened
but i shouldn't have had to cover my ears
to get the ringing words out ove my soft strings
now my colors are dull
and i hang limp and tired
I was not meant to be walked upon. My colors, weft and weave too delicate for tread of feet. My fate was the sky, soft silk covered buttocks my only burden. A man of power, a woman of beauty and passion found love flying. There were children. Their tiny bodies laid on woven wool laughing, soaring over deserts, oasis, cities. I was old with centuries of burdens, imbued with dusty forgotten places. A loose thread pulled, tugged by wind and little fingers. One gold tassel took flight, and us falling, falling, falling. Snow flowers along my edges turned violent crimson poppies; salted tears crusted supple fabric. There would be no more flight. Dismembered, disheartened, crucified flat and yet undying. A spike for each corner, deep driven into white marble at the doorstep. I came to know leather boots, silken curl toed slippers, steel shod hooves, and again the soft patter of tiny bare feet. Carnelian to blush, azure to ice, mauve to mud. Wool to dust and gold to flakes. Forgotten was the sky, the birds, the evening breeze; all but the threads that should have been white, and tassels that no longer adorned me. The pegs wore down in their holes. I did not leave. Then old hands, woman's hands, wrinkled and fine, un-staked and repaired. Old gold re-found. Stability. Hope. A balcony and a breath of wind. You were my freedom first, and then my deepest grief. I forgive you. Let us be free together once again...
I hang in the middle of a sheltered bazaar. Women catch their breath to admire me, while their men ask the price, allured and ready to commit. All notice; want the secrets I promise. My seller shakes his head at even the largest sums of gold. For me, only an emperor's fortune will suffice.
He is the son of the one whose final masterpiece I am. Never before and never since did candle after candle burn through the Kurdish nights, as those fingers grew raw and breath halting, until the son and daughters pleaded:
"Mother, please drink, you must rest."
Only then would Mother come away from me, but by morning those hands would tremble through me again, weaving life and power and beauty across my spine.
Then one day, the hands paused, caressed me one last time and finished. When she left the land of living a few days later, her son said her soul had passed through her hands into me.
A salesman, he told his story to every interested party, but none bought the merchant's tale. In fact, irritated by his arrogance, others spread rumours that he was a liar. Then the son could not sell anything at all.
He sold me to a brothel— the Christians who ran and frequented it had no care for reputation.
Mother's hands are a distant memory. Life passes above. I gather dust beneath the golden feet of women who give their hands and other parts to men—who're falling apart.
It’s all about purpose
I remember coming into this world, this home outside of my birthplace. Although, I felt like an assrug for leaving my friends and family behind, I had a purpose to find and I wasn't ashamed about letting myself be taken away.
It's probably an insult to my unique, well woven birth family to admit this but I loved my new family. I brought color and beauty to their lovely home. I did what I was made for. I let them use me as a stepping mat, marking the path that raised them to whatever heights they wished. I absolved their spilled mistakes and took their apologetic cleaning with love and forgiveness.
It was a life well lived and I harboured no hatred for them at all when my work was finished and they needed to replace the ghost of what I used to be. I'd been witness to humans who searched endlessly for their purpose in this life. Some found it but some lost themselves or died before they could fulfill their destiny. I had already fulfilled mine.
There were worst ways to go.
There was a time, when the colors were vibrant, crimson, blue, green and purple, beautiful symmetrical patterns, of incredible complexity. Much concern was taken, with the weaving, precision and pride, but no fear of failure, not with those masters. The price I fetched, fed a family for a year.
A symbol I was of opulence, cultured taste and subtlety.
People even the grandees and magistrates took their shoes off before daring to step.
I moved a lot since that.
Excuse my accent. It's been some time, since anyone asked.
I got cigarette ash, blood. I've seen disaster.
Boots , fresh from conquest, harried upon, with saluting and barking, as explosions close by caused stucco to rain over me.
Rolled up, hurriedly, a trophy changing hand. Snow, soot, and mud. More urine and blood.
I was folded, breaking apart many threads. That later could not be hidden .
Heathens and sodomites, philistines and novo rich, all possessed and mistreated, leaving their marks of disregard and outright malice.
I was turned to a fixture of a cheap apartment, changing impoverished hands month by month.
I was not repaired retouched, nor even vacuumed.
Until the last fire, that I escaped not at all. Left with three corners and a big hole, I was rolled up for the last time, folded, then thrown.
The street cats enjoy the shelter I offer from the rain.
But such is the way of all things...and being stoic is what being a Persian carpet is all about.
My fault entirely.
I’m the one who allowed
to walk on me
laid down in their path.
I was so beautiful
my delicate plush jeweled lushness
by filthy soles.
if I let them use me
come to love me.
I was wrong.
The world does not cherish
those who do not stand up
for their own value.
I sit at a threshold-
I am not, for the record a Persian carpet. Just clarifying. I'm a human (probably).
I also do not want to be a Persian carpet. But I will be for this demonstration. Most everybody wants to be something they are not at some time anyway. The point though is that I am now old and frayed, stepped on until I'm thin and more a piece of cloth than a luxury carpet at all. My colours have left me. But to be honest, as far as Persian carpets go, I wasn't a very expensive one anyway. for some reason, I was set at the threshold of a fancy house, with fancy people living inside. Not many paid mind because of my quality. But there were some that raised their eyebrows, complimented the homeowners, and stepped on me more gingerly. Everyone else that came in those big houses though... they paid no mind. The ones that had money practically falling out of their pockets. The ones who were my owners. The ones I was supposed to impress but could never seem to do so correctly... they all walked upon me. But again... I was never the best carpet, as far as Persian rugs go that is.
Who walked upon me? Why, the people i loved the most. The pitter patter of their feet hitting the cold hard wood floor filled me with great sorrow so i laid myself at their feet so that they may be comfortable. They would use me all the time so i thought they loved me just as much however, when i was stained and drained to the point you couldn't tell one color on my rugged back from the next, they rolled me up and threw me out.