Tag Archives: Dance

Senbon Zakura Mirror Dance

I had closed the cracked window.
The gust of the first born wind
disappeared into the coming rain
together with the flute, the drums,
and the fleeting nature
of the movements-
explosions, distortions.

‘Twas like dancing slowly with
the image in the mirror
or like fragmenting
the memories of love
to empty the minds-
emotions that were eaten by
the heat of the summer.

I took a seat near my neighbor
whose husband had been
a soldier fighting in Asia
until having his half of the head
removed by a bullet.
He had always been
one of the best.

 

Suddenly, the movement
became very fast while continuing
without music
like in a sequence of movie frames
that builds tension
to enhance the consciousness-
euphoria, chills.

The dancers were, in fact,
impair numbers having
their white sashes wrapped
around their heads
while pirouetting
at a heightened tempo
to give this motion a sense
of living.

The window opened
to bring the noise of the metropolis
and the smell of the twisting wind.
Well, it was not a killing one
like those coming from the polls
and being filled
with some tiny bacteria
that had been left by the meteors or
by the lost civilizations.
‘Twas only a rainy wind.
These bacteria are not fictions;
they warm up to become
real weapons,
not Disney animations.

Life itself is not an illusion.
When life becomes hallucination,
then, something else
must be actual.

The hail hit
the roof of silence.
The dancers
were waving their arms above
their heads while clapping wildly
their swaying bodies
to express the words-
numbers of God.
I would say that
’twas not a previously
choreographed dance.

Ancestral emotions moved
all the things of the mind
out of the free space.
Crawled swiftly within
the suffering souls from which
have started to disappear peacefully.

 

Poem by Marieta Maglas

Rhapsody: a Tribute to the Girl Child

Beauty at its best, when you let your wings flutter
A joyous dance in the rain, or in the quiet confines
Of your own sacred nook. Every beat of your feet
A holy chant, every move of your waist,
A delightful symphony. Absorb the tiniest morsels
Of the life, the moments fleeting away
As you trudge the buttery ground
Beneath your feet.
Your footsteps fade and resound
Eager, firm, fresh, you are the beings
Of a fairer world.

Unlace yourself as you teach us
How to be a petal bloom in darkness
How to make flesh, bones, joints
Speak together in a harmonious chime.
The music of your body
A sliver of light in the pale blue sky,
An orchard in the valley of the Gods.
Your dance, an untainted gift,
Wrapped in earth’s bosom.

Copyright: Lopa Banerjee.

Footnotes: This is a humble dedication to the spirit and beauty of the girl child, inspired by the joyous spirit, the sublime innocence of my own daughters, and also by a picture shared at the ‘Woman Inc Poetry Project’.

The Blue – Eyed Boy’s Mother

The little boy sleepily stumbled
Into the constricted room,
“Mama,” he sobbed, puzzled,
And she gathered him in her arms…
She rocked him gently to sleep
Until his blue eyes closed…
She chanted a little prayer to keep
Her little boy safe and gently
Wished him a lovely dream
That he could see,
Unlike the darkness he saw
When he was wide awake…

*

Placing her little boy on the bed
She hurried to her job…
She slipped into the black robe
And wrapped the black scarf
Around her beautiful hair…
She lowered the veil down her face
That she hoped would separate
Reality from the nightmare…
She stepped out to the night
As dark as her cheap robe,
Hailed a dilapidated cab
And headed to the city…

*

The music that the bar chose
Was not of great taste,
But the men still gathered around
The stage where she danced
Out of spite, in the blue dress
That glittered seductively,
Unlike her blue eyes that were dead…
Intoxicated by the drinks, they broke
Glasses when they applauded…
Intoxicated by her numb blue eyes
And milky, silky skin that glowed,
The ravenous men cooed…

*

Her feet ached and head throbbed,
The sweat-drenched chiffon clung
To her subconsciously dancing body,
Intent stares burnt blisters
On her skin and in her conscience…
Past midnight, in the early hours,
She shed down the skin of sin,
Slipped back into her black robe
And pulled down the veil once more…
Grabbing the stinking notes held out,
She disappeared into the darkness again
To get back home, to her little boy…

*

The little blue eyes fluttered open,
Glassy they were, staring past her…
The absence of light in them
Tore at her heart as she watched
Her little boy drink his milk…
She counted the notes that stank
And put them back in the rusting box…
She sighed and the tiny brows
Above the blue eyes rose
At the slightest sound from his mother…
“Mama, are you all right?”
The innocent lips worried…

*

There were many more nights
Of burning stares, stinking wine sweats,
And intent, lust-filled words…
Many more nights of aching feet,
Throbbing head, sweat-drenched chiffon
Clinging to her tiring body…
Many more blisters to form
In her conscience divided
Between honor and sinning
To buy sight from the surgeon
For her little boy’s blue eyes…
There were many more nights…

(From my second collection ‘The Room of Mirrors : Reflections in Words’)