Scissors, ca. 1636. British, probably London. Silver, steel; L. 6 1/16 in. (15.4 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Irwin Untermyer, 1970 (1970.131.6)
«In a previous blog post, I described my process of writing poems in the galleries during regular visits to The Met in which I zero in on whatever draws my attention, jot down notes, and make quick sketches in my journal. Lately, I've found myself being inspired by objects in The Met collection just as much as paintings. I recently saw a simple spoon and pair of scissors that prompted me to write about my oma, or grandmother.»
Next time you're at The Met, I wonder if you'll notice one of the thousands of small and often overlooked objects on display in the galleries that stir the imagination. Tell me about it if you do!
Scissors
During the day I see her, I can be with her anytime,
At night I dream she sits beside my bed, stitching time.
She draws from her sewing basket stuffed with rainbow floss
scissors so etched you think they belong to a queen.
The points like the beak of a delicate bird, peck at taut knots,
nip edges of shantung silk peppered with slub.
I catch a glimpse of her soaking glossy floss between her lips, then
guiding damp thread through the eye of a needle, a passage pulled tight.
Oma's creased hands etched with webs of wrinkles stabs and tugs thread
with the deftness of a Hollywood fashion designer although she
grew up before televisions sat in homes.
Out of the corner of my eye, a diamond flash reflects ebbing moonlight,
white light runs like a shooting star on the scissor's shank,
blinking from the eye ring to the bevel of the blade.
Crafted with tender finesse, an elegant handtas, or evening bag,
aquamarine trimmed in blue cord, empty now but full of promise,
secured with a green enamel button as big as a turtle's back,
dangles from my bedpost and stirs memories with dreams.
Spoons and spoon mold, 1700–1800. Bronze, pewter; H. 8 1/8 in. (20.6 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Frederick S. Wait, 1907 (07.175a–d)
Measure of Time
Hunched over the hearth like the curve
of a willow near the cool water of the Hudson River
Oma meditates on the flicker of the flame,
turns a smooth wooden spoon through applesauce
as thick as muddy earth.
She claims I could live to be one hundred
if I ate her cooked apples every day for the morning meal—
But who has time for breakfast?
Oma dips her pointer into the boiling muck and samples,
a smack of her lips saying the most difficult thing,
that her hands are her hands, she cannot hold time for me.
She pinches cinnamon from a glass jar and sets it free,
my spirit chases the ripe scent through warm air,
nudging copper pots like kindled tambourines.
I wrap my arms around her doughy waist, rest my chin on her
gracile shoulder and bite down on my lip.
A yellow square of light drifts from the window to the wood plank floor,
our joined torsos rise and gently fall, cleaving with the air of uncertainty.
Hunched over the hearth like the curve
of a willow near the cool water of the Hudson River
Oma meditates on the flicker of the flame,
turns a smooth wooden spoon through applesauce
as thick as muddy earth.
She claims I could live to be one hundred
if I ate her cooked apples everyday for the morning meal—
But who has time for breakfast?
Oma dips her pointer into the boiling muck and samples,
a smack of her lips saying the most difficult thing,
that her hands are her hands, she cannot hold time for me.
She pinches cinnamon from a glass jar and sets it free,
my spirit chases the ripe scent through warm air,
nudging copper pots like kindled tambourines.
I wrap my arms around her doughy waist, rest my chin on her
gracile shoulder and bite down on my lip.
A yellow square of light drifts from the window to the wood plank floor,
our joined torsos rise and gently fall, cleaving with the air of uncertainty.