Bonny Wool Pom Poms Poem by Deborah White

I could never learn to darn crochet sew or knit
my mother bless her red head patiently tried
for years to show me how. My sisters cousins
grandmas, friends, neighbours all could, it
seemed the whole of Westerhope would pick
up and knit a stitch or two. Everyone looked
as if they did just fine. But if getting a new
jumper or scarf or heaven forbid, a husband
depended on my left-handed knitting skills.
I would be left on the shelf, nothing helped.


I couldn’t even manage to cast on or knit
the first row of plain and pearl. Every one
kept telling me to be patient and wait and
I would most certainly learn after all I was
a girl. But it didn’t seem to work quite like
that. Everything I did was backside forward
back to front, inside out and usually upside
down. Was I the only left-handed non-talented
non-knitting, non-sewing ten year old council
estate kid in this bonny old Newcastle town?


But actually after years of trying, I decided
that on the whole I was content just sticking
both my arms out stiff and straight, winding
the coloured balls of wool, standing stock still.
I discovered that I did have an artistic skill a
genuine talent after all. I learned to make
lots of bonny wool pom poms using a large
upside down saucer a pair of old scissors
an empty cornflakes box. I was remarkably
good at cutting out and crafting perfect new
cardboard pom-pom ring shapes. Never mind
scarfs or jumpers, it was bonny wool pom poms
the best in old Newcastle town, I could make