How ephemeral the memories now seem. As if they truly come from a world altogether unfamiliar…
Tis but a dream The early mornings spent on ice, The blinding lights and gorgeous whites, Thirsty lungs, Tired quadriceps, And of course bruised knees. And all of them filled to bursting with the emphatic movements, Gestures, Leaps, And lifts, Of the bladed ballerinas That dance across my fading dreamscapes…
The ice-dancer glides effortlessly, But with purpose austere. Every muscle contracted in the manner most conducive To manifesting their artistic desire. From fingertips To toe-picks Their body transfigured into an instrument of emotion — A weapon of beauty. From start to end each routine is a metamorphosis: Budding and blooming along a euphonious plane Until the artist’s full potential is revealed… The energy released — The raw power, Of the jumps and spins, Kaleidoscopic fireworks Clashing Against the roaring white backdrop: Each explosion The ignition of a chambered round; The spiralling bullet, The impact on target… The artist’s winter warfare actualized.
Last night, As such ballerinas …riveting …terrifying Danced around the panorama of my mind’s eye I recalled that ultimate unison between flesh and spirit; That of the figure skater Painting their art On a canvas most cruel.