A Weaver of Carpets
The ATLANTIC’S door is always open to promising new writers, and twice a year pages are set aside for poets who have come to deserve a hearing. This spring’s Young Poets section introduces five fresh talents to ATLANTIC readers.
BY SAM TOPEROFF
The
eternal
truth of my father’s
words I have come to know:
“The Piety of Imperfection is the
greatest burden of all.”
I, Mahmoud, have
found it
so.
When
I was a young
man at my craft, Im-
perfection was the seed
of all my art. Allah alone could
form a perfect thing, so,
as all must do, in my
carpets
I
wove
The Sacred Error
which more than satisfied
the letter of His Holy Law, but
with experience I wove a central flaw
which, somehow, all but pleased
those very holy eyes
it set about to
tease.
My
eternal
truth of my father’s
words I have come to know:
“The Piety of Imperfection is the
greatest burden of all.”
I, Mahmoud, have
found it
so.
When
I was a young
man at my craft, Im-
perfection was the seed
of all my art. Allah alone could
form a perfect thing, so,
as all must do, in my
carpets
I
wove
The Sacred Error
which more than satisfied
the letter of His Holy Law, but
with experience I wove a central flaw
which, somehow, all but pleased
those very holy eyes
it set about to
tease.
My
tapestries were much in de-
mand throughout the
kingdom. Un-
like the
dolts
who hid The
Sacred Error in
the border or in the
Arabesque (brave souls!),I
left ragged the very
cheetah’s claw
that should
have
curled
around the
Caliph’s daughter.
In limitation I found
the source of strength . . . and a
liberal fee as well,
while my rep-
utation
grew.
But the
critics couldn’t
be pleased. At first
they cried, “How brazen is
this Mahmoud to flaunt his Frailty
mand throughout the
kingdom. Un-
like the
dolts
who hid The
Sacred Error in
the border or in the
Arabesque (brave souls!),I
left ragged the very
cheetah’s claw
that should
have
curled
around the
Caliph’s daughter.
In limitation I found
the source of strength . . . and a
liberal fee as well,
while my rep-
utation
grew.
But the
critics couldn’t
be pleased. At first
they cried, “How brazen is
this Mahmoud to flaunt his Frailty
so.”
And now
when I, the Mas-
ter, drop a border stitch
or two, they chide, “No longer
certain, eh Mahmoud?
No arrogance
to show us
any-
more?”
They think I’ve fallen into
line and left my Pride in
a corner place. They do not know
Mahmoud. Each evening
I weave a flower pat-
tern, a Holy
Car-
pet, which
I shall leave to
the Mosque at Ardebil.
It shall be flawless! Quite
perfect! My father’s words are
hidden in the cartouche,
for I am, first,
a weaver
of car-
pets.
And now
when I, the Mas-
ter, drop a border stitch
or two, they chide, “No longer
certain, eh Mahmoud?
No arrogance
to show us
any-
more?”
They think I’ve fallen into
line and left my Pride in
a corner place. They do not know
Mahmoud. Each evening
I weave a flower pat-
tern, a Holy
Car-
pet, which
I shall leave to
the Mosque at Ardebil.
It shall be flawless! Quite
perfect! My father’s words are
hidden in the cartouche,
for I am, first,
a weaver
of car-
pets.