A Quilt For Dietrich Bonhoeffer

by Anna Scott Graham

  every corner had met up.

  I still needed to write a poem today,

  so here it is.

  Jedi minds tricks do work,

  but be mindful

  that they are used in responsible manners.

  No dropping anvils on unsuspecting coyotes, you dig?

  My Little Corner of the World

  Lately it’s been a room with very yellow walls,

  music on shelves

  and within my computer.

  A large table has been covered by fabric,

  or that fabric has been draped over the ironing board.

  But my little corner changes

  as the seasons roll

  as pastimes ebb and flow.

  I don’t know where that corner will be tomorrow

  but wherever it is,

  I hope my light shines.

  That’s all that matters,

  at the end of the day.

  The darkness is temporary

  when light shines on every little corner of the world.

  When the Pieces Fall into Place

  I want to run into the streets,

  shouting in a giddy cadence:

  I finished my quilt top!

  But of course decorum rules;

  instead I texted my daughters

  the photo of their brother

  lending me two hands.

  Thank goodness he’s tall,

  and thank goodness someone was around to assist.

  Quilt tops are fashioned in pieces, by pieces.

  But some pieces are longer than others.

  And some are tricky,

  especially for a novice like me.

  This morning all I had left to do was cut and sew the long cream sashes along all four sides

  and insert a batik square into the corners.

  It wasn’t much,

  well, maybe not for an expert.

  However, I am not an expert.

  This is my third quilt top,

  well, my fourth,

  but the third was very small,

  16” X 22”.

  This is… I wrote it down somewhere.

  Post-it notes are right up there for this quilter

  with an iron and straight pins.

  This quilt top is 53” X 65”.

  And it will get bigger, once I add the batting and backing and binding.

  Three B’s, but first

  is a quilt top.

  If you aren’t a quilter, well, imagine the initial task that goes along with any sort of creative endeavor.

  Or any sort of endeavor indeed; one always has to start somewhere.

  With a quilt, first there is the top of it, which can be sewn into any variety of style.

  I chose patchwork, because I like patchwork,

  and I needed to learn how to make all

  (or most)

  of the corners meet up correctly.

  Precisely.

  Or fairly well.

  The fabrics were from my dad’s chemo quilt

  and batiks I bought just for this project

  and some muslin

  with little tiny flecks.

  I like the little tiny flecks,

  for they represent the overall vibrant colours of this particular quilt.

  Or they denote the bold hues on the front

  (although the backing flannel and binding shades aren’t exactly quiet).

  I love bright colours, I love batiks.

  I love quilting,

  although what I have just accomplished is actually piecing.

  The true quilting is a few days down the road.

  But in the meantime, I have a quilt top.

  If you lived near me, perhaps you are picking up the

  exuberant vibes,

  the tremors of excitement,

  the happy dance of a woman who jumped into this hobby with eyes half-closed

  but a heart bubbling over with sewing enthusiasm.

  Other pastimes I have similarly embraced,

  yet none of them offer the snuggly goodness that quilting provides.

  Even if summer is right around the corner,

  everyone needs a quilt.

  It’s like giving a hug that never ends,

  and goodness knows this world could use more hugs.

  Singing to Heaven

  This isn’t about hymns.

  This is about Bryan Ferry’s “When She Walks In The Room”

  and Buddy Holly’s “Well All Right”.

  This is about singing to whoever is listening,

  and since I’m the only one sitting in my sewing grotto,

  I’ve gotta imagine there are others

  beyond the veil

  taking advantage of my impromptu concert.

  “Word Up!” by Cameo

  is on my playlist,

  fave songs from over the years

  that I sing with more gusto

  than a woman alone should be singing.

  But what if I wasn’t alone?

  What if some ethereal audience was loitering,

  or more rightly

  hanging on my every note?

  (Hey, it could happen…)

  I’ve got a brother up there,

  various grandparents, aunts, uncles, and the like.

  Not sure if the oldsters appreciate rock;

  what do they make of The B-52s?

  “Give Me Back My Man”

  isn’t at all similar to Lawrence Welk,

  but Larry could swing,

  just as Kate and Cindy do.

  If nothing else, Lawrence Welk would appreciate

  Kate and Cindy’s hairstyles

  from the time they made this music.

  And maybe when Cindy sings this song,

  she thinks of her brother

  like I sometimes think of mine.

  Not everyone is destined for American Idol,

  even if they have a voice from heaven.

  For where is heaven really;

  is it high above our heads

  or just on the other side of my ironing board

  in the slender space along the wall.

  Spirits aren’t large;

  they can squirrel into the thinnest of areas

  as my voice soars above fabrics and record albums and stacks of CDs.

  As my voice wafts throughout this small room,

  it reaches farther than bright yellow walls,

  through sheet rock and wooden beams.

  It’s sent high and low,

  near and far.

  It floats wherever necessary,

  well past where I can see.

  It’s “Chains of Love” by Ryan Adams

  sometimes belted

  sometimes warbled.

  It’s Belle and Sebastian’s “Step Into My Office, Baby”.

  It’s whatever the computer puts out,

  whatever needs to be sung.

  Even spirits need a little rock and roll,

  pop,

  disco,

  country.

  Indie music too; the more obscure tune

  is often what makes them happy.

  How do I know?

  I wouldn’t just sing anything, you understand.

  It has to be melodic,

  healing,

  entertaining.

  It has to have that, well, that swing.

  Maybe Lawrence Welk would understand,

  maybe he’s among my admirers.

  Maybe he’s standing between my brother and my great aunt,

  swaying to the beat.

  One of these days, certainly,

  I’ll find out.

  I wonder who we’ll all be listening to then?

  If Dietrich Bonhoeffer Made a Quilt…

  All afternoon I wondered if Dietrich Bonhoeffer ever made a quilt

  would it be as colourful as the one I was quilting.

  I’m actually quilting this comforter now,

  back and forth r
ows, and after an appropriate rest time,

  I’ll go the other direction

  making squares in the fabric, batting, and flannel.

  I’ve been reading Bonhoeffer’s

  Letters & Papers From Prison

  during Lent.

  Although now it’s Holy Week;

  is it also still Lent?

  Anyway, most days at lunch

  I read a few pages worth of letters from

  Dietrich to his parents,

  his parents to him,

  his godson to him,

  and from his eldest brother.

  Over the last few days smuggled correspondence

  from Bonhoeffer’s best friend

  and former student

  Eberhard Bethge

  has entered the story line,

  but no matter who is writing to whom

  the whole thing is bittersweet.

  Perfect for Lent,

  and perfect for quilting.

  But it’s the colours that made me ponder such an outlandish query;

  of course Bonhoeffer would have never made a quilt.

  Maybe his wife would have,

  but he and Maria von Wedemeyer never married.

  She published their letters separately

  from his book,

  but she is mentioned often;

  he worried that his lengthy imprisonment would be too much for her to handle.

  So if he never even married,

  why am I thinking he would have made a quilt?

  It’s the shades, bright and hopeful.

  Tangible optimism hums

  in a wide array of vibrant hues

  that mirror his thoughts

  of future days

  once the war was over.

  He truly thought he would be freed.

  Knowing that he wasn’t

  makes his book at times hard to read;

  I nearly gave up on it,

  thinking lunchtime wasn’t conducive

  to that sort of topic.

  But darnit, Bonhoeffer makes incarceration seem

  not that awful.

  He’s constantly assuring his parents he’s okay,

  mentally and physically.

  He probably said the same to Maria,

  but to Eberhard he speaks more honestly,

  and much of it concerns their friendship,

  how he longs for that man’s opinion and

  for his presence.

  Colours fill the letters;

  warm reds and oranges of joy

  calm blues and purples of acceptance,

  irritated green for a flash of anger,

  life-giving yellow for Christ.

  All those shades are woven into my quilt,

  becoming more quilt-like with each row tacking all three layers into one.

  All those letters, some illicit,

  some passed through ordinary channels,

  light up my imagination,

  providing solace that even so many years later

  is necessary.

  Bonhoeffer was hung two weeks before American soldiers

  liberated the concentration camp

  where he had spent the last weeks of his life.

  Bethge was rescued by Soviet troops

  and went about making sure Bonhoeffer’s words weren’t written in vain.

  But still, in late 1943, both men were alive,

  hoping to be reconciled,

  blending their young beloveds

  into an established camaraderie

  that seemed impossible to separate.

  Once a blanket is quilted, it would take repeated washings

  to undo all the stitches.

  I could also imagine Dietrich and Eberhard

  sitting together

  discussing the things they cherished;

  classical music, cigars, God.

  Perhaps the women they loved slipped into their conversations,

  or maybe fabrics.

  Maybe they talk about

  the perfect colours

  if one of them was to make a quilt.

  And Jesus joins them, taking a seat,

  giving his two cents.

  One Month Ago

  It’s been a month since I opened the WIP;

  since it’s been a month, does that still make it a WIP?

  Or is it a novel that lingers within my hard drive

  (and on flash drives and in email accounts)

  without any sense of completion, direction, or closure.

  For some reason this evening I clicked on that document,

  read a page and a half,

  making a few revisions.

  Then I turned it into an epub,

  plopped it on my iPod,

  then opened it again.

  It’s a huge thing,

  over 3,000 pages on my little 2009 iPod screen.

  It’s a story I was full committed to

  until quilting muscled its way onto the scene.

  It’s a story that I do want to finish

  someday.

  It’s nowhere near the end,

  one of those tales that gets longer

  and longer

  and longer

  the more I write on it.

  Or the more I wrote on it, past tense.

  When I started it, last October,

  I was thinking short story,

  no joke.

  Now it’s up over 243K,

  dude!

  It’s set in the early 1960s,

  but it’s not actually historical fiction.

  It’s about a guy who…

  Well, you see, it’s got this magical realism thing going,

  but it’s steeped in familial melodrama

  and faith.

  And it deals with the Korean War,

  WWII,

  and a couple of gay art dealers in NYC.

  Well, they are a couple,

  just another unexpected aspect of writing a story

  that comes from a dream.

  But the last time I opened that file

  was on St. Patrick’s Day,

  which surprised me, when I noted that date;

  one month ago exactly.

  In a month I’ve made two quilts, nearly finished a third, fashioned a wall hanging,

  and found myself up to my armpits not in Martians

  but in fabrics.

  Where did the writing go;

  was it lost in Eric’s studio,

  did Lynne bury it in a pie crust,

  did Renee misplace it at the hospital,

  or did Sam cook it in another ubiquitous pork chop recipe?

  Those are the main characters, but many others have popped up

  since I began the novel,

  but what will happen to all of them,

  Stanford and Laurie,

  Marek and Seth,

  Agatha and Michael and Constance and Laurie’s Aunt Wilma?

  (She’s Seth’s mother, who is Laurie’s cousin…)

  Nothing gonna happen to any of them

  if I don’t get my butt back to writing,

  but there have been fabrics to cut, then piece back together,

  road trips to see my father,

  spring to enjoy.

  (But what about the story?)

  I’ve been busy learning the in’s and out’s of quilting,

  also watching baseball. SF lost to LA 2-1 this afternoon, sigh.

  Sam’s a Red Sox fan, a beleaguered fan at that.

  See, I didn’t forget that fact.

  Eric doesn’t really pay attention to sports, or he didn’t,

  until he and Sam became good friends.

  Lynne and Renee used to work together,

  until Lynne quit, to take care of Eric.

  The story isn’t far from my mind,

  unless I’m sewing,

  or being tortured by my ball team,

  but then Sam knows all about being tortured…

&n
bsp; Jeez, now I can’t get that novel from my head!

  A month ago it was all I could ponder.

  A month ago I had yet to finish a quilt.

  A month ago…

  My life changed.

  But I didn’t see it happen.

  I just closed the document,

  and turned another page.

  But tonight I poked at that manuscript,

  then slapped a copy of it on my device.

  Now, I have a decision;

  will another month pass

  or tomorrow, instead of sewing…

  I suppose at this time on Friday, 18 April,

  I’ll know.

  Short Poem about Unknown History

  Eighty years ago this photograph was taken, probably in Chicago.

  My father-in-law is in the front,

  his aunt to the left.

  The young man behind her is my father-in-law’s older brother.

  Their mother is to the right.

  The man in the middle is unknown.

  Perhaps no one knows who he is;

  my father-in-law has been dead for twelve years.

  (He lived to be 92.)

  I wonder who took the snapshot,

  and why.

  We’ll never know that either.

  This poem was based upon a photo I chose randomly, for that day’s inspiration.

  Ten Years Ago

  For one thing, I wasn’t even thirty-eight years old yet.

  For another… Oh, what difference does it make

  how many differences I list.

  It was a decade (plus a few days) in the past,

  and we’ve been back in America for over seven years.

  I was on the phone with someone from The States,

  I’m sure,

  maybe one of the people I will see tomorrow.

  But on that day,

  11 April 2004,

  I had no idea that ten years later

  I’d have been back in this country for over seven years.

  But that’s not the gist of all that’s happened either.

  My eldest was fifteen at the time;

  now she’s married.

  We didn’t realize our son

  had Asperger’s Syndrome.

  My youngest was eleven,

  eleven!

  That’s practically a baby

  compared to who she is now.

  Have I changed that much?

  (Yes.)

  I still have that long-sleeved white shirt,

  maybe even those jeans.

  My hair is still naturally brown,

  believe it or not.

  But who I am inside

  is a far different woman

  than the one seated on that bed.

  But I can’t explain that

  in a poem,

  no matter how lyrical

  or long.

  I don’t even wholly grasp it;

  it’s hinted at in moments like these

  when I whimsically choose one photograph

  then write lines of verse

  while trying to avoid watching my baseball team

  again flail aimlessly at the plate.

  Only in prayer can I approach who I have become,

  or when held within my husband’s loving grasp.

  Easter is a good time to consider such alterations,