I feel his hands, brushing through my hair
And gently, like a pendulum, they sway.
Pulling and pushing and tugging at my locks
Straightening out of what is the pride of a ‘faroes.’
Wild, wild, my fleece is wild,
Gently he picks, his combing is mild.
I’m neat, I’m clean and I’m free of dust,
I’m raised from the base so that he must,
Stretch me out and twist me a bit,
Half my fibrous length, at my tip.
He lets me go, where I start to thin,
And grabs my next flock therein,
Easing me out of my crimped state,
Back and forth on the carding plate.
Its wire like teeth; they pin me down,
They tear me out; I’m worsted about.
I had come as tags, full of manure,
He skirted me off, before I was cured,
Then soaked-‐submerged in acidic baths,
Removed my grease and scoured me hard.
His teasing, picking, un-‐entangling my web,
I was fluffier, loftier about to ebb.
He spread me out on the pinned bed,
And patted me down and in, to embed, And so I,
Felt his hands that brushed my hair
Gently, like a pendulum, they’d sway.
Now smoothly I lye,
In paralleled bundles,
Ready to be tumbled,
From a roving state,
With an oiled potion
Into spinning locomotion.
He taps his feet,
In a rhythmic beat,
To wind me around,
In a whirring sound.
Controlling the wheel,
Beneath his heel,
The whorl, the flyer,
Maiden and tension, All of me,
Now ready to skein.
I toss and turn And come undone,
From rolling balls
I slowly crawl,
Into numerous chains
His thumb in strain,
His index took and
Held me in hooks.
He commenced on Looping in a form,
The shank the butt,
Forming the layette,
Until he could snip,
At a preferred metric.
I rest at his nape,
I hang down along,
I keep the ‘V’,
Of his throat so warm.
I do not cling,
I allow him to breathe,
I absorb and release,
All -‐ at his ease.
He feels me oft
From the back of his palms,
Crushes me soft,
I crimp – but unharmed,
I spring back in shape,
My natural drape,
Can easily ape
The look in his mind.
If you’ve been listening,
You would probably rewind,
To his nape his neck,
His shoulders, I bet,
No longer cold,
Under my mould,
His gaze still holds,
My lustrous beam,
In his eyes I gleam,
I feel like a dream.
I would last him long,
He knew that well,
He closed his eyes
And began to tell,
“Your timeless beauty exists to be,
Beyond all seasons and cycles of fads,
I need no reason for having been clad,
In your ash-‐hued skin,
Your never perishing,
Promise to last,
As an asset to cast,
In enduring wardrobes,
Transcending the globes.
My faithful lady,
Devotes her turn,
To block in my heat,
But save me burns.
Your helical, matrix,
Your waxy lipids and complex insides,
Microfibrils, simplified outsides.”
My porous spirit bows to him,
I exist to serve the earth and HIM.
In nature’s lap, I’m born and grow,
But need the water, so much more,
And even though I resist mildews,
I have my share of climatic woes.
I’m anti-‐static, easily cared,
Superior quality, if lovingly reared.
I soak up acoustic sounds in the range,
Of humans and I do not change,
In years to come, I shall remain,
My very best and all the same.
And when I wither and start to decay,
Cast me off and begin to slay.
Burry my bits, back in to the mud,
My decomposing self shall emerge,
And slowly release the nitro-‐gene,
To feed around the micro beings.
And while I breathe my last breath,
My soul will travel in and set,
Atop the bobbin
To feed the reel,
This text on Wool was written and submitted by Pooja Gupta for Round 2 of Modeconnect’s International Fashion Writing Competition. Check Pooja’s entry for Round 1: Fashion and sustainability: An impossible combination