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Poem

** Degas Dancers **

Painted or drawn, 
Degas arrested time.
Truly
His dancers
— even those standing,
      watching the others —
Are caught in motion,
In poised postures such
That we think we can feel them
Breathing, alerting
Their limbs
To prepare for performance;
(On stage or in the studio) with
That tension,that anticipation, or
Waiting primed in stage wings
— The blue dancers,
The green ballerinas —
Always observing,
Always envisioning
What is to come,
Ever mindful
Of the goals:
To become the music,
Leaving self for the movements,
Hoping to realize that epitome:
To paint their bodies with grace
Into such danced, linked, perfectly
Sweeping lines, curves, and angles that
The music itself 
Will gasp…
The music, sounds fulfilled
Into flowing sights
As the dancers live 
The choreographed 
Combinations.

Then curtsies are
Done and flowers thrown.
In the endings, dancers become
Themselves again, like 
Degas drew them: sitting
Slumped, tired, side by side on benches
With their tutus flared and
Colorful; their pointe
Shoes off with ribbons strewn;
The music fading from thought…
But, the ballet remains,
The very meaning of
Their lives, in all
Dreams and imaginings,
Blessed to them 
First to last
Every motion
Becoming a
Joy in
Being.

————————————————————————————-
(c) Art & poem sally young eslinger
2/22/22

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