Thursday September 1st, 2011

The exercise:

Today seems like a day to write about: the dancer. Not sure why, it just does.

Had a pretty quiet day around these parts. We've got two more house guests right now, and they helped us with a small harvest and a little bit of weeding in the morning, and then the rest of the day was spent resting and relaxing.

Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow comes the big harvest for the market.

Mine:

The dusty piano begins to play,
As the torn and weathered drapes gently sway.
Floorboards creak beneath her tentative toes,
Her ears await the beat her body knows.

She whispers like a wind across the room,
Her arms outstretched like a flower in bloom.
As she dances a single tear appears,
Her soul moved by music only she hears.

7 Comments:

Greg said...

It's starting to sound like you're running a hotel out there! Although most hotels don't rope their houseguests into weeding and harvesting :)
I'd be quite interested to hear how you'd deliver this poem; it's got a very elegiac quality to it that comes across as slightly haunting. I rather like it.

The dancer
Four years ago there were crowds,
Queues that stretched back half-a-mile,
Filled with people who knew
They couldn't get a ticket
But were determined to try anyway.
All to watch her dance.
She smiles at the memory,
And the smile fades as she watches her hand shake,
Reality seizing her life once more,
Holding her head, making her see
Things that she abhores.
A nurse comes in, and plumps her pillows,
A quiet, friendly word, asking how she is,
And she replies, smiling, with warm words,
Using hope to curtain the depths of her despair.
Tomorrow, says the nurse,
Tomorrow, she repeats,
And they both pretend the operation
Will make a difference.
She lies back and closes her eyes,
To dream of her life before it changed.

Ruby said...

Dedicated to my best friend Elise S

My friend is a dancer...
She can do ballet, tap, hip hop and jazz
Although I can only do ballet...
I used to do ballet but I grew out of it after a while
When I was younger I loved doing ballet...
So I can say I was a DANCER!!!
As for my friend I think she is truly talented

Brittany P. said...

She calls herself a dancer,
but she hasn't danced in years.
But if you watch her, she still walks on the balls of her feet,
a habit she's never stopped.
She still has a gliding gait
even when she fetches the mail.
She still stands straight, shoulders back, with her chin high,
ready for a turn or a jump.
Oh, you can see her disappointment.
She misses the spins and the turns.
She misses the adrenaline and the electricity of performance.
The sound of applause.
Being showered with flowers.
Spinning faster and faster...
But those things are past.

Maddy said...

Tip Toe Tip Toe
Beauty and grace
Such a beautiful show
Every girl dressed in lace
Sweetly going too and fro

Tip Toe Tip Toe
Beauty and grace
Inside the rhythm there does blow
A pain so strong, you must brace
yourself for the all time low
You must struggle to keep pace

Tip Toe Tip Toe
Beauty and grace
Why does agony give a glow
That lights a watchers face
But leaves a performer cold as snow?
Just beware the chase

Maddy said...

I realized there is a line missing in mine. There is supposed to be a line 6 which is:
'All things in place'

Marc said...

Greg - I'm glad it came across that way, as the word 'ghostly' was running through my head as I wrote it.

Bloody fantastic poem. You packed it with so much emotion and imagery and... yeah, can't even pick a favorite line. Or lines, even.

Ruby - I'm sure she'll really appreciate that :)

Brittany - that's really great! I particularly liked what you did with lines three through eight.

Maddy - gorgeous work, really liked the repetition. Made all the better with the insertion of that missing line :)

Anonymous said...

For a slightly different take on the topic:

He had just dropped her off after an amazing first date. He had kissed her for the very first time - a brief, yet slow and lingering kiss. She felt giddy and on top of the world. She had said goodnight and entered her house, heading straight to her room, a smile permanently implanted upon her face. She closed the door and leaned back into it, gently brushing her fingers over her still burning lips and smiled at the thought of their next date. She began to twirl around her room, the way a little girl would when practicing to become a ballerina. It was graceful, and pure. She spun in intricate movements to a melody only she could hear, the kind that one creates when caught up in the fantasy. It was clear from the way she controlled her movements that it was love that fueled her dance. The pure, raw emotion causing her to revert back to the days of her childhood where she dreamed of being a ballerina and dancing on a stage. But here and now, she was a girl falling in love, and her bedroom was her stage. And for her, that was enough.