"danseur" poems
He always wanted to be a ballerina
To dance so dainty up on his toes.
But everyone could see under his tutu
And the bump they saw was not his nose.
He had the talent and the perfect figure
To perform the balletic steps just right.
There was no way he could ever manage
To keep that ample package out of sight.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
His skin was smooth just like a swaddling baby
There was no concern about flat *******
Many ballerinas are rather mannish
With not much curvature to their chests.
So he could pass completely undetected
Androgyny was his great good friend
But any moment when he swirled about
Tutu would lift and then spell the spell would end.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
He never really loved the danseur posture
The holds and lifts and hearty leaps about.
But in the world of ballet and its leaders
Ballerina guys are always left out.
Still he danced in tutu at auditions.
He heard the comments, paid them no mind.
If they could not see grandly male Pavlova
That meant that all of them were blind.
Jete, jete. Plie, Plie.
Dance like that’s all you want to do.
Dancing straight, or dancing gay,
Do whatever is right for you.
Hands and toes pointed fine
Back and necks held straight.
Maybe it’s not your time to get picked.
But make it worth their wait.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
A bone meets another bone
And you have a joint !
Joints are allright !
Cartilage !
Without them you couldn't possibly dance !
Imagine only your sacrum and your ilium
and no sacro-iliac joint
And no innominate bones
Imagine just a second a pelvis without coccyx
And your seven cervical
Your twelve thoracic
And your five lumbar vertebrae
Hanging loose !
How could you possibly swing your pelvis
From one side to the other
Without your pelvic floor ?
No more grand plié
No more passé développé à la seconde
No more attitude en avant on pointe
Farewell penché
Farewell attitude derrière !
See what I mean !
That's why I always say
I'd rather be with no bone
No skull no heart
Ï 'd rather be a hurricane
Wind has no skeleton
Wind needs no joint
Wind goes naked
No shoes, no underwear
And despite of all that
Wind is a ballet dancer, a danseur étoile
With no dimples in the back.
Wind can lie supine and stand upright
Feet parallel, legs stretched
Wind has no greater nor lesser trochanter
Wind has no right gluteus maximus muscle
No feet flexed, no ****** femoris muscle
Wind never gets pinched, stuck nor jammed
Wind is constant ricochet, yo-yo, meanders
Gulf Stream !
Wind is a catwalk model
Dancing its swinging walk
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 6:50 PM UTC
I will not call you my baby,
Until I can be your only baby.
You maneuver around a subject
With the litheness of a danseur.
Though I would like to love you,
If you would let me love you,
Loneliness has never been what drives me.
It is love to which I answer.
I can see the youthfulness,
And much more, for my sleuthfulness.
Are you seeking any other than me,
Who is eager to applaud as to centre stage you bound?
For just a while more, I wait for first frame.
It could be so grand to see how you move your frame.
I have wondered if your dance would be as spry
As the clever way you manage to avoid.
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
as is our wont, she cooks, I clean.
a division of labor, that reflects
skills levels celebrating
les différences vivent!
sink-bent, over the grill pans,
with water thundering,
soap liquid armies/battles concocting
(secret, shh!)
nonetheless overhears her
chilling in bed,
veg TV watching
thunderous interrupted by
what he knows
will be minimum six or
seven sneezes
which is her wont.
one/two won't ever do,
she a veritable sneezing machine gun,
ever alert, the scrubbing man
becomes a danseur fluid,
performing a triple tours en l'aire
from kitchen to bed in three bounds
with swift and mighty leaps to new heights,
he makes his way to her side,
having plucked tissues,
from a nearby, overhanging branch
upon his way.
seven sneezes immobilize,
kinda like being tasered,
snowball-in-the-face stunners,
requires her man to be a her-o-dancer
to be a savior, gift bearing
of relief-aid to her side.
he returns to the kitchen work,
you cannot half wash dishes,
it's an all or none thing,
it's a man self back slap/clap of the hands
when satisfaction of job completed visible.
satisfaction of just rewards
should always be given
to heroes,
danseurs,
dishwashers,
one and all
so when he slips in beside her,
greeted with seven kisses
for seven sneezes
*and this children
is no love poem,
but one of daily stories of
lives well lived in love,
where the mundane,
where the ordinary,
traded up into precious extraordinary
are ever on poems of life,
and ok,
yup,
love
too.*
now slap/clap for jobs well done....
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
Fable II, Livre V.
Je suis un peu badaud, je n'en disconviens pas.
Tout m'amuse ; depuis ces batteurs d'entrechats,
Depuis ces brillants automates,
Dont Gardel fait mouvoir et les pieds et les bras,
Jusqu'à ceux dont un fil règle et soutient les pas,
Jusqu'aux Vestris à quatre pattes,
Qui la queue en trompette, et le museau crotté,
En jupe, en frac, en froc, en toque, en mitre, en casque,
La plume sur l'oreille, ou la brette au côté,
Modestes toutefois sous l'habit qui les masque,
Moins fiers que nous de leurs surnoms,
Quêtent si gaîment les suffrages
Des musards de tous les cantons
Et des enfants de tous les âges.
L'argent leur vient aussi. Peut-on payer trop bien
L'art, le bel art de Terpsichore ?
Art unique ! art utile au singe, à l'homme, au chien.
Comme il vous fait valoir un sot, une pécore !
C'est le clinquant qui les décore,
Et fait quelque chose de rien.
La critique, en dépit de mon goût et du vôtre,
Traite pourtant, lecteur, cet art tout comme un autre.
Quels succès sous sa dent ne sont pas expiés ?
Qui n'en est pas victime en est le tributaire.
Le grand Vestris, le grand Voltaire,
Par sa morsure estropiés,
Prouvent qu'il faut qu'on se résigne
Et qu'enfin le génie à cette dent maligne
Est soumis de la tète aux pieds.
De cette vérité, que je ne crois pas neuve,
Quelques roquets tantôt m'offraient encor la preuve.
Tandis qu'au son du flageolet,
Au bruit du tambourin, sautillant en cadence,
Ces pauvres martyrs de la danse
Formaient sous ma fenêtre un fort joli ballet,
Un mâtin, cette fois ce n'était pas un homme,
Un mâtin, qui debout n'a jamais fait un pas,
Campé sur son derrière, aboyait, Dieu sait comme,
Après ceux qui savaient ce qu'il ne savait pas,
Après ceux, et c'est là le plaisant de l'affaire,
Après ceux qui faisaient ce qu'il ne peut pas faire.
Quoique mauvais danseur, en mes propos divers,
Pour la danse, en tout temps, j'ai montré force estime.
En douter serait un vrai crime ;
J'en atteste ces petits vers.
Mais que sert mon exemple à ce vaste univers ?
Je n'en crois donc pas moins le sens de cette fable
Au commun des mortels tout-à-fait applicable.
Chiens et gens qui dansez, retenez bien ceci :
L'ignorant est jaloux et l'impuissant aussi.
1.2k
It comes when the wing crisply cuts air, or when the brush flicks with flair.
Through the pews when the light paints walls a vibrant, revenant view.
Masterful as a Commander; catching her gently in the shifting tides.
A carpenter’s touch, a moment of nirvana; it is we, serenity savors.
Let it be graceful as a Danseur; falling as silk in pirouettes
Yet impossible to grasp, a flash of truth like lighting: an instance over.
Still the chase is everlasting, so long the giver is victor.
For stronger we’d be, pursuing love like the dawn of the hunt.
A luxury, free.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC
Sur la corde tendue un jeune voltigeur
Apprenait à danser ; et déjà son adresse,
Ses tours de force, de souplesse,
Faisaient venir maint spectateur.
Sur son étroit chemin on le voit qui s'avance,
Le balancier en main, l'air libre, le corps droit,
Hardi, léger autant qu'adroit ;
Il s'élève, descend, va, vient, plus haut s'élance,
Retombe, remonte en cadence,
Et, semblable à certains oiseaux
Qui rasent en volant la surface des eaux,
Son pied touche, sans qu'on le voie,
À la corde qui plie et dans l'air le renvoie.
Notre jeune danseur, tout fier de son talent,
Dit un jour : à quoi bon ce balancier pesant
Qui me fatigue et m'embarrasse ?
Si je dansais sans lui, j'aurais bien plus de grâce,
De force et de légèreté.
Aussitôt fait que dit. Le balancier jeté,
Notre étourdi chancelle, étend les bras, et tombe.
Il se cassa le nez, et tout le monde en rit.
Jeunes gens, jeunes gens, ne vous a-t-on pas dit
Que sans règle et sans frein tôt ou **** on succombe ?
La vertu, la raison, les lois, l'autorité,
Dans vos désirs fougueux vous causent quelque peine ;
C'est le balancier qui vous gêne,
Mais qui fait votre sûreté.
851
Sauté, that's how he made her heart leap.
Pirouette, that's how he made her head spin with the thoughts of him.
Tours en l'air, just thought of having him will brought her the feeling of having her feet off the ground whilst spinning like he is doing some sort of sorcery.
And the waltz, she have witnessed him do this and soon found herself drawn to him, drawn near, too near and all willing to let him take her and lead her to the slow beat in contrary to her heart's fast thump.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC
*He stopped dancing today
I read the letter again
it was from my friend.
She says it was his heart.
His beautiful heart.
I shall miss him terribly.
He taught me all I am
I was Just an apprentice
he was Premier Danseur
at the company.
I was just a girl he said come
I shall make you famous
and you will glide across
the stages of the universe.
It occurred to me we were
Becoming best friends.
What I did not know was
I was falling in love with him.
He was so gentle so kind.
I cannot imagine this company.
Without him.
For years we danced together
in all the cities of the world.
He would hold me afterwards
in the small hotel room.
Always calling me
his Prima Ballerina.
He aged as I grew famous
I saw his bleeding feet.
His broken bones.
His suffering for his instrument.
I could smell the musky sweat
He could no longer hide
And I knew his time was over.
When I visit Paris again
I will visit his grave
on a sunny day.
Touch his lovely name
on the granite.
I shall say
I always loved you
my champion.
It was always you.
And the spring sunshine
will light the gold filigree
of his chiseled name
on the granite headstone.
As though he knows
I am there for him.
As always.*
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
The beauty of ballet
is not found in the graceful plié
nor the elegance of a perfect glissade;
it is in the twisted, broken toes of the dancer;
the slipper full of blood.
The exquisiteness of life
is not in the gathering of fame and riches,
but rather, like the danseur lifting the ballerina,
it is found in the painful sacrifice of self
that lifts another heavenward
toward the dazzling stars.
The beauty of the butterfly
is not in the shimmering iridescence
of its painted wings in morning’s light
or the weightlessness of its flitting flight;
but in the awe-inspiring metamorphosis
from lowly caterpillar to winged god,
as it slowly struggles to survive beneath
the hungry beaks of a thousand birds.
Likewise, the magnificence of Man
is best reflected in the transformation
of the lonely individual
who, despite the darkness of the hour,
finds his wings and angelic cause
in the collective community of humankind.
Beauty isn’t always lavish and dazzling,
apparent to the surface of the eye;
beauty can be elusive and transparent,
to be felt only in the interior of the heart.
It takes form when you discover something
greater than yourself in the world.
It takes meaning when the light that is you
is redirected and reflected on the
anonymous shadows of another.
The smile that is on another’s face
because you put it there;
hope that takes root in another’s soul
because you planted it there.
Faith that no proof requires;
the love which fills and inspires.
Living in this world isn’t wonderful
simply because you are in it –
living in this world is wonderful
because of all the people with whom
you get to share the journey.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
Ah, la danse ! La danse
Qui fait battre le coeur,
C'est la vie en cadence
Enlacée au bonheur.
Accourez, le temps vole,
Saluez s'il-vous-plaît,
L'orchestre a la parole
Et le bal est complet.
Sous la lune étoilée
Quand brunissent les bois
Chaque fête étoilée
Jette lumières et voix.
Les fleurs plus embaumées
Rêvent qu'il fait soleil
Et nous, plus animées
Nous n'avons pas sommeil.
Flammes et musique en tête
Enfants ouvrez les yeux
Et frappez à la fête
Vos petits pieds joyeux.
Ne renvoyez personne !
Tout passant dansera
Et bouquets ou couronne
Tout danseur choisira.
Sous la nuit et ses voiles
Que nous illuminons
Comme un cercle d'étoiles,
Tournons en choeur, tournons.
Ah, la danse ! La danse
Qui fait battre le coeur,
C'est la vie en cadence
Enlacée au bonheur.
373
Quand Auguste mourut, Rome, donnant l'exemple,
Sur le mont Palatin lui fit bâtir un temple ;
Et Livie y dressa des figures d'airain ;
Elle mit au sommet du fronton souverain
Neptune et Jupiter, et sous le péristyle
Le mime Claudius et le danseur Bathylle.
301