This recording was made in march of 1991, when Mimi, with Barbara Hall, soprano, and Jane Joyce presented the Quilt Songs at the Second Festival of Women Composers Conference at Indiana University of Pennsylvania as part of a workshop entitled “Quilting the Arts: A Public Conversation.” Scroll down to see the text of the four poems.
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1. Log Cabin Quilt
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2. Crib Quilt
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3. Saw Tooth Bars or
Tree Everlasting |
4. Repeating Star
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From Quilt Poems, by Jane Wilson Wilson Joyce (Mill Springs Press, 1985; reprint by Gnomon Press in Quilt Pieces, 2009): |
LOG CABIN QUILT
“BARN RAISING” VARIANT
Outside, men
hoist notched, numbered logs,
raise the rafters two by two,
peg them base and peak
to joist and ridgepole,
nail on lathing,
then the shingles,
quilting cabin to chimney.
Inside, women
set a chimney each
in a center square,
then piece logs
length to folded length,
building block by block
a cover whose weight alone
would hold the warmth.
Our house, this day
will be a bell
memory can ring
bright as plates on the table,
the red stripes at the new quilt’s hem,
wet clay
packing the chinks.
CRIB QUILT
Chores done
my hands find
time to work
for you a spell:
orchard, ploughed land
warm beasts crowding
the barnyard,
gabled house,
a woman smiling
in the doorway.
Rounding out
the picture
I fill and stitch
three haystacks, plump
the hen’s eggs,
fluff up the sun
like a yellow pillow
to keep you warm.
SAWTOOTH BARS,
or TREE EVERLASTING
We stole away,
leaving debts,
our good name gone sour,
a bad taste in the town’s mouth.
This patch of dirt
is our clean start.
I cross the clearing.
Moonlight bars my path.
Red eyes wink, star
the ring of tree trunks.
Wilderness
solid as a stockade.
In the cowshed
I press my head
into the thin cow’s flank.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Her milk runs through my fingers.
Like two bold colors
then and now
cross my mind.
I throw my head back,
see stars crowd thick,
the Milky Way
running between crossbeams
where wind blew shingles off the roof last week.
Tears pour down my face.
There’s no use crying.
I bathe my face at the trough,
lift starlit water
to my red eyes.
Back inside, I smile
at the doubt in his gaze.
I sit by the fire
and take up my piecework.
Leaf green, bark red
band my legs
as I bend my head
to the task:
quilting the wilderness,
I bite off my thread.
REPEATING STAR
poem found in ANONYMOUS WAS A WOMAN
I’d rather piece as eat
and I’d rather patch as piece
but I take naturally
delight in quilting.
When I were a new married woman
with the children round my feet
it appeared like I’d get so wearied
I couldn’t take delight in nothing
and I’d get ill to my man and the children.
What do you reckon I done them times?
I just put down the breeches I was patching
and took out my quilt square.
It was better than quilting, child,
it was reason.
“BARN RAISING” VARIANT
Outside, men
hoist notched, numbered logs,
raise the rafters two by two,
peg them base and peak
to joist and ridgepole,
nail on lathing,
then the shingles,
quilting cabin to chimney.
Inside, women
set a chimney each
in a center square,
then piece logs
length to folded length,
building block by block
a cover whose weight alone
would hold the warmth.
Our house, this day
will be a bell
memory can ring
bright as plates on the table,
the red stripes at the new quilt’s hem,
wet clay
packing the chinks.
CRIB QUILT
Chores done
my hands find
time to work
for you a spell:
orchard, ploughed land
warm beasts crowding
the barnyard,
gabled house,
a woman smiling
in the doorway.
Rounding out
the picture
I fill and stitch
three haystacks, plump
the hen’s eggs,
fluff up the sun
like a yellow pillow
to keep you warm.
SAWTOOTH BARS,
or TREE EVERLASTING
We stole away,
leaving debts,
our good name gone sour,
a bad taste in the town’s mouth.
This patch of dirt
is our clean start.
I cross the clearing.
Moonlight bars my path.
Red eyes wink, star
the ring of tree trunks.
Wilderness
solid as a stockade.
In the cowshed
I press my head
into the thin cow’s flank.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Her milk runs through my fingers.
Like two bold colors
then and now
cross my mind.
I throw my head back,
see stars crowd thick,
the Milky Way
running between crossbeams
where wind blew shingles off the roof last week.
Tears pour down my face.
There’s no use crying.
I bathe my face at the trough,
lift starlit water
to my red eyes.
Back inside, I smile
at the doubt in his gaze.
I sit by the fire
and take up my piecework.
Leaf green, bark red
band my legs
as I bend my head
to the task:
quilting the wilderness,
I bite off my thread.
REPEATING STAR
poem found in ANONYMOUS WAS A WOMAN
I’d rather piece as eat
and I’d rather patch as piece
but I take naturally
delight in quilting.
When I were a new married woman
with the children round my feet
it appeared like I’d get so wearied
I couldn’t take delight in nothing
and I’d get ill to my man and the children.
What do you reckon I done them times?
I just put down the breeches I was patching
and took out my quilt square.
It was better than quilting, child,
it was reason.