Monday, 5 December 2016

The Dancer

Flames slither and stretch - blue below, orange belly distending, fingers of yellow snatch.
They urge you on.
Stars above scatter - sparks, the sneeze of light, explode through dear darkness
and burn the skies above.
They leave footprints upon the sky.
A galaxy they say; The Milky Way.

Cello moans - his deep assent, pulling at the depths of thought, extracting emotion ethereal.
Plinkling piano tickles through - dancing along your fingertips that play,
yet there’s nothing there.
Fire’s fingers slide - drawing breath from Violin who sails out her tightest song
like an angel’s breath on her thinnest string.
They call you closer.

Arms sweeping the heavy air aside, you glide in.
Rhythm your language, motion your speech, transcendence your game -
And so you spin: the cloth a trail from your arm, your hand a shooting star across the abyss;
your hair - a twinkling stream of life poised to fly upon a pirouette.
They leave trails upon men’s vision.
A fire-writing trick they say; emblazoned patterns.

Men draw near - heavy hands, lustful hearts, drunk minds that grope... for what?
They know not!
You dance to the music of your soul; for who could know your cello, your piano, your violin?
Not these men!
There is no music, no rhythm to them!
No transcendence… Only motion, they believe.

Angling in, she catches fire. Oh how those men now react!
Dust and smoke - a nebulous mix, sliding up, caressing her legs, subsuming that hair.
Fire climbs - seeking, seeking the folds of that lachrymose face…
seeking, seeking that elusive tear.
Still the cello assents,
Still the piano tickles upon a press…. Upon a press that’s not there.

He lunges - her arm the target, but trips, the drunken fool!
You chase a spectre, don’t you see?
What music? What rhythm? What goal?

The quiet one understands.
The corner - his space embracing, his bank of knowledge, his weight of things he’s seen.
“Who are you?” they cry at you.
Now they mock: “How dance and tease when there is no music, whore?”
The quiet one -  in his corner, hears the music from your soul: he knows your cello, your piano, your violin! He knows one more:

Alexithymia your name.

*Alexithymia - (noun) difficulty describing an emotion (esp. one’s own).

This piece is dedicated to Catrina Kaufman, whose playing on the piano inspired the image that drove this.