An Ode to Scissors

I love cutting paper and I love the sound of scissors cutting paper. But even more, I love the shape of a pair of scissors. There's something so elegantly beautiful about the shape of scissors. And, if I could, I would have a drawer full of them.

Here's what my dream drawer of scissors would look like:

Shears by Shozaburo scissor company from Best Made Company

Marguerite Scissors from The French Needle

Allex Non-Stick Scissors from The Shop at Cooper-Hewitt

Antique Stork Scissors from The Vintage Universe

Double Face Scissors (Photo: Colleen Abbott/Pinterest)

9 Inch Fabric Scissors from Spartan Shop

Brass Scissors from Hay

1.8" Black Utility Ceramic Scissors from Kyocera

 9" Studio Teflon Scissors by Merchant & Mills

My Melody Scissors

(Photo: Pack Rat Memories Blog)

I leave you with a poem by Pablo Neruda.

Ode to a Pair of Scissors

Prodigious

scissors

(looking like

birds, or

fish),

you are as polished as a knight's

shining armor

Two long and treacherous

knives

crossed and bound together

for all time,

two

tiny rivers

joined:

thus was born a creature for cutting,

a fish that swims among billowing linens,

a bird that flies

through

barbershops.

Scissors

that smell of

my seamstress

aunt's

hands

when their vacant

metal eye

spied on

our

cramped

childhood,

tattling

to the neighbors

about our thefts of plums and kisses.

There,

in the house,

nestled in their corner,

the scissors crossed

our lives,

and oh so

many lengths of

fabric

that they cut and kept on cutting:

for newlyweds and the dead,

for newborns and hospital wards.

They cut

and kept on cutting,

also the peasant's hair

as tough

as a plant that clings to rock,

and flags

soon stained and scorched

by blood and flame,

and vine

stalks in winter,

and the cord

of

voices

on the telephone.

A long-lost pair of scissors

cut your mother's

thread

from your navel

and handed you for all time

your separate existence.

Another pair, not necessarily

somber,

will one day cut

the suit you wear to your grave.

Scissors

have gone

everywhere,

they've explored

the world

snipping off piece of

happiness

and sadness

indifferently.

Everything has been material

for scissors to shape:

the tailor's

giant scissors,

as lovely as schooners,

and very small ones

for trimming nails

in the shape of the waning moon,

and the surgeon's

slender

submarine scissors

that cut complications

and the knot that should not have grown inside you.

Now, I'll cut this ode short

with the scissors

of good sense,

so that it

will

fit in your pocket

smoothed and folded

like

a pair

of scissors.