"danseuse" poems
#*
The breeze made an impression through the night
That of a warrior back from a fight
The place all glorious by its precious presence
The winds had no say tonight
The breeze was gentle
Tenderly it spoke to the million leaves
The street lights glimmered
The crickets sung their song
Like the jingling anklets of a danseuse
On a musical night*
🌿🌿🌿🌿
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 8:07 AM UTC
I was never told
To behold
The tears
Carrying all my fears
To let them flow
For the glow
To pay the price
For snatching the prize
To let someone die
On the mere roll of the die
I was never told
To behold
The dance of the fairies
Amongst fires in the prairies
Of the sacrifice
For the fool’s paradise
I was never told
To behold
The danseuse death
In her fight with fate
The glory bequeath
With the fory dead
I was never told
To prepare myself
To fight herself
To wrench my prize
From someone her size
I was never told
To behold
People’s fate
In someone’s gait
To let the decision
Be forsaken of vision
I was never told
To behold
The dance of the dead
As if they had never bled
Their waking up again
Out of deign not disdain
I was never told
To behold
The history being rewritten
And the mysteries being smitten..
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
I put a cigarette between my teeth
While Hundreds of bats soared
Through the Brick wall corridors
Through the strobe of flashing signs
“Danseuse nu”
And so I cupped my hands
Before my puckered lips
Shielding the dancing flame
As though it were an infant
Shivering in the wind
I am nocturnal as well
But I do not fly
Nor do I screech through the restless night
I watch, oh I watch
And I write
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
#*The energy of red and happiness of yellow combined
Light orange spilled on the pale blue sky
Tender green leaves, on brown twigs
Like
Pretty fingers of a danseuse, striking a pose
Magnificent hotel Taj Mahal Palace
Ever so resplendent
Stands tall
Life passes by
A moment captured on lens*#
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 2:22 PM UTC
1
Water lilies remembered her
as one of them, lotus buds nodded, jealousy set thick in their eyes
her fingers were white lily buds
she balanced on the big, smooth, round
pebble stones, like a danseuse in an
under water ballet,you are buoyant here than anywhere,
as if you live a life after death
your bodies pale and water caressed, create an illusion of 'unliving'
2.
she tickled my skin-
goosebumps appeared allover
as small bubbles going up..up till they burst above water
I can't forget her first kiss , underwater
my lungs were filled with her feminine fragrance like smoke of cannabis
an experience that sizzled the water, never to forget
(even if she would never come back from the unfathomable love, water gives)
3
I was naked, she too, like a lily in bloom that was raveling in love
as if it was the last season we had
she was magic in body and soul
I peeped in to the limitless with her entangling me and at the end,
I saw halo around her pointed *******
that have become lotus buds.
I couldn't take my eyes off them
after the magical transformation.
The lake was totally out of the world
the mossy patch between her legs
had a fluorescent glow intermittent,
she was transforming every minute in to a form of water life, I understood.
like a fish, coral, moss or water plant
I , for my dismay remained as before; nothing was to be done about it,
like many of the things brought change in a person's life.
4.
Sun, in the voice of light
called us from above,
his pranks tickled her and me
like ghosts of dead women,
found their watery grave here,
we played with tortoises and frogs
made for us crowns with algae and water flowers.
5
A silvery snake, thin, with some intent
coiled around her narrow waist.
eyes in its sharp pointed head,
intently looked in to mine.
she was now a dolphin without fins
then, I received waves of clear foreboding
time to return to the shores, I tried to tell
but massive sheets of water ate my muffled words!
Swimming up a water column, she smiled that detached smile
already, she was a mermaid , I could see
I stammered"You..promised..
to come back..
we have promises to keep,
that we exchanged..."
Under water time runs in a way we can't understand
one becomes a flow, one with altered time..
she was just a glow in the depth when I saw her last.
O
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
my timid tournefortia,
whose peripatetic scent matadors
the mad men.
whose laughter veers away the impossible,
of whose flame will gander
like flotsam in a sea of aloneness,
you are a danseuse in the
misty moonlight.
perpetual in the night illume,
perched in the deepness of
sad walls calling out the
azure. my little tournefortia,
it was such joy to have lived
when you have blossomed.
--- as all flowers go, you too, have gone - flagrant grows regard, like a prancing flame
of blue my eyes are frantic and
anew --- i seek new flowers.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
it is not the tier of enmeshed leaves
nor the zither of green. none is their duty
to discover the lunar hook of moon.
— the old bamboo is the mistral
danseuse tonight.
whatever the etcetera
of it, whatever the birds demand from it.
a sling of breath is far-flung into the sky
announcing merriment before the child
beheads the tulip,
before the creature chokes the pistil,
before the light enters slow-churn
of synthesis.
hearing the giggling of bush in
the mire of wind, heaving in all kinds
of sleep, the children, the weather,
together; synapses drunk in translation
and we feel no longer the secret
of a guerrilla behind the foliage.
it is only the heraldry of the world
when the morning unclips its wing,
as monsoons continue their bushwhack
amongst petty citations.
past oceans gleaming and
away from hills dreaming — by the
river, dead of heart, riveting silence
of land, past the battered bridge in Marilao tracing deathlier waters,
all gone in recall, something
i scour to find only pining away from
scarcity of remember. it is never their
duty to bring back its image
to dance with me again.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Esoteria, this marble body wrought of burden
Of the Halcyon days, breathéd in these coarser ways
I peer rapture ‘pon the retina at what you sought
And won to capture.
I see my kind and its soul in artful craft and oil
Marvel at an author’s hand the suffuse horror
Beauty demands. How fickle the smoke of
Inspiration. My torture scratched half on leaf
Come as these came, fleeing we for it Eden
Burned and pacified this trembling hand needn’t pacify
The true desire of my own a prize for heart
‘gainst, I know the pillar lone.
So ebb and flow melancholia go, ‘twas that despair
Walked hand-in-hand down the ****** gates, no worse
For wear, that belle danseuse undone and bare
Morose lines drawn away in the scope of stare.
My future was so painted thus, these seconds were
A stronger pulse, no stranger to my wicked book
But I know difference; set I to find the charm and
Awe her radiance inspired.
Lo, it was not painting nor poetics, but the hand
Sleepy eyes, such confound this tongue and scene
Pathetic—this waylayer of my woe escaped
With the point of her toe, blind to things as I and drapes.
More joyous I couldn’t be, before aesthetics
As such let be and seeking to seek her out
As fiction demands content, I stay devout
Between pillar lone and the crashing wave of dreams
Come pouring forth. Shall I mar this angel,
Crestfallen, who, nay, suffers for awe?
Yes, I must for fear of my echo’s mate so cherished
Is fate for beauty so raw in moment’s time I’ll speak of love.
Her gaze is passed from room to wall as a spectre,
I, unseen and all, reach out, frozen as David to
Frustrate a period in done, unfinished verse
Still climbing, but to now a leveled curse.
‘T’is fitting a hand as mine would rightly ruin
No eye, nor brain, nor mouth a cage, my hex
An artist seeks Elysium so truth to coincide—
I’m vexed—as love and word step from my life
In tow, they from the page.
Perhaps even these can’t sustain the ecstacies
Ecstacies of the unlovely as I at portrait’s gaze
Stand and profane a sacred she or there,
Genius in the gallery still prey for Esoteria.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
staring into the warm void this evening
i take my place within jarring volitions.
thought is volatile. a mason strikes
metal, revealing its malleability.
there is treason in thought of geography;
i will shatter the mooring and find myself
something the fluting wind is the muse
and echoing quiet, a ripple from stone-skip.
the next place to go is the beginning
stemming from a concatenation of ruins.
the thinning visage of masses crossing
the streets wary of collisions
is something realer than the wounded glaze
of asphalt and the mirage that goes along
tiptoeing like a danseuse through shards
of incandescent figures. fumes. sprawls.
untouched virgins. tacit stones. doves
perching on powerlines nestled like youth
suckling mothers. fathers facing telegraphs
and the sure machine of dearth.
stasis of peregrinations. peripatetic
crush of imminent homes.
this is to assuage its call, from nowhere
arrives the next train to Kamuning,
disappearing in a plethora of arms
sequined by sweat under the swelter of planets
unfurling a bent axis of tragedies. we are
fraternized to tracks, unyielding distances,
makeshift solaces serial, benign, tenured.
belonging. unbelonging.
our destination: an impending sojourn,
the verdigris taking form.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
#*Fisherman’s net spread
No shoals
Transparent its soul, shiny sheen
The ocean dances to a rhythm known
Its own
Eclectic muse
Moves like a danseuse
Like the flowers in spring
Under the morning sun
Luminous
The ocean swells
Scattering gems
Sparkling diamonds
Embers of sapphire
Slivers of gold
Secrets of the ocean
Never held
Sunrise to sunset
Serendipitous moments
Gently unfold*#
Jun 9, 2024
Jun 9, 2024 at 11:49 AM UTC
Promène-moi au long du fleuve
Inonde-moi à la rive
La reliure du livre,
Mainte fois épanoui comme
L'envergure d'une danseuse,
Déchirée par la pluie
Interpelle mon nom
Sur tes lèvres noyés,
et que je ne manque le chaos qui
m'attendait d'ailleurs, hier soir
Hommage d'un papillon,
Choyé par la lueur clignotante,
Un mensonge, une trahison atroce
Que quiconque n'essaie de dévorer ma démise
Je ne suis que vent, tempête, ouragan
Une bête ensorcelée,
Éternelle à la douleur
Puisse que tenace de jeunesse,
Et crise de nulle part,
Nous entrelace les mains dans la terre
Faites que je me retrouve six pieds sous la mer
Perdre sa langue,
Que sois chose plus pire
Que perdre sa voix,
Et ne plus pouvoir dormir
Toute qu'une brume
Triomphant l'aube, et
La chair de mon sang
Aussi fatal que le sifflement,
Le sifflement du vent
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 3:33 PM UTC
frozen flow in
walls of liquid ice
my hands
whose hands
time in tip toes
round and round
musical box
turned over
the tin soldier
sails his boat
steadfastly
for a danseuse
mirrors shed
who i see
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
J'aime le carillon dans tes cités antiques,
Ô vieux pays gardien de tes moeurs domestiques,
Noble Flandre, où le Nord se réchauffe engourdi
Au soleil de Castille et s'accouple au Midi !
Le carillon, c'est l'heure inattendue et folle,
Que l'oeil croit voir, vêtue en danseuse espagnole,
Apparaître soudain par le trou vif et clair
Que ferait en s'ouvrant une porte de l'air.
Elle vient, secouant sur les toits léthargiques
Son tablier d'argent plein de notes magiques,
Réveillant sans pitié les dormeurs ennuyeux,
Sautant à petits pas comme un oiseau joyeux,
Vibrant, ainsi qu'un dard qui tremble dans la cible ;
Par un frêle escalier de cristal invisible,
Effarée et dansante, elle descend des cieux ;
Et l'esprit, ce veilleur fait d'oreilles et d'yeux,
Tandis qu'elle va, vient, monte et descend encore,
Entend de marche en marche errer son pied sonore !
Malines, août 1837.
398
Une fois, une seule, aimable et douce femme,
A mon bras votre bras poli
S'appuya (sur le fond ténébreux de mon âme
Ce souvenir n'est point pâli) ;
Il était **** ; ainsi qu'une médaille neuve
La pleine lune s'étalait,
Et la solennité de la nuit, comme un fleuve,
Sur Paris dormant ruisselait.
Et le long des maisons, sous les portes cochères,
Des chats passaient furtivement,
L'oreille au guet, ou bien, comme des ombres chères,
Nous accompagnaient lentement.
Tout à coup, au milieu de l'intimité libre
Éclose à la pâle clarté,
De vous, riche et sonore instrument où ne vibre
Que la radieuse gaieté,
De vous, claire et joyeuse ainsi qu'une fanfare
Dans le matin étincelant,
Une note plaintive, une note bizarre
S'échappa, tout en chancelant
Comme une enfant chétive, horrible, sombre, immonde,
Dont sa famille rougirait,
Et qu'elle aurait longtemps, pour la cacher au monde,
Dans un caveau mise au secret.
Pauvre ange, elle chantait, votre note criarde :
" Que rien ici-bas n'est certain,
Et que toujours, avec quelque soin qu'il se farde,
Se trahit l'égoïsme humain ;
Que c'est un dur métier que d'être belle femme,
Et que c'est le travail banal
De la danseuse folle et froide qui se pâme
Dans un sourire machinal ;
Que bâtir sur les coeurs est une chose sotte ;
Que tout craque, amour et beauté,
Jusqu'à ce que l'Oubli les jette dans sa hotte
Pour les rendre à l'Éternité ! "
J'ai souvent évoqué cette lune enchantée,
Ce silence et cette langueur,
Et cette confidence horrible chuchotée
Au confessionnal du coeur.
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