Best Barre Poems
REHEARSAL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my mind, a ballet dancer,
my thoughts in constant rehearsal.
each idea is poised
at the barre of consciousness,
leg extended, muscles trembling.
some are fouettés, sharp and quick,
a flurry of solutions,
a staccato burst of inspiration,
others, adagio, slow and deliberate,
a sustained arabesque of contemplation,
held by the strength of quiet observation.
there are moments of stillness, too,
a gentle plié, a pause in the music,
a chance to gather strength before the next grand jeté.
she injured herself at the barre
needs to do stretches to soften the jar.
with exercise and a heat pad, she should be alright
trying óto ease ache away, to put things right.
sat on the chair to do toe exercises, she knew
would be agony, but work through the pain she must do
she raised and fell her muscles were hot
with sweating hands to massage her foot
an important exam at dancing school the morrow
not being able to dance would cause great sorrow
a smile the next morning seemed to say all is fine
reminding her to warm up properly next time
Penned Febr 27 2016
One would not know, to look at me,
my years spent at the ballet barre -
tights sticking to me in summer,
cold fingers in winter.
And the aching to be better,
to be seen,
to be given a correction from my teacher.
She was the goddess of all dance and knowledge,
the stern angel of technique and artistry.
She made me cry,
yet I loved her.
She made me hate myself
and hate ballet and its impossible standards.
If I had been perfect,
self-loathing would not have existed
in that sweat-wringing studio;
the click of her cane would not have conjured dread.
I yearned to be beautiful-
in her eyes and in my own,
but she always wanted something unattainable.
Now, decades later,
if by chance I hear that music,
I inhale with anticipation,
dancing in my mind -
weightless and lovely,
the movements forever ingrained in me.
Perhaps I do a port de bras
if no one is watching.
But I'm sure she is looking down and frowning,
hoping I will extend my arms a little more.
The strange thing is, I know she loved me.
She just wanted something from me that I didn't think I had.
Once manifested on the
heel of Adagio in G major,
balancés and assemblés from
the back hand. Baryshnikov told
me to flatten my stomach, so I
repressed the urge to
breathe; suffocation is
incandescence by the barre.
Then I looked in the mirror and the
mirror glared back in contempt- the meat, the
pillow I nursed in my belly, the spine,
always sagging like the pools of honey in my knees. I
shoveled over some Hydroxycut and pride, and bribed
it to be my lover.
Quitting was hard, unless I never
did it. Unless I cigarette-butted
my way out of Saturday rehearsals. Timed death.
As if I could peel a stopwatch from
nodules of encephalon, shake it in front
of Svetlana- ‘I have a rendez-vous with
the Pope, my future is to become a
world-class wine connoisseur, wine
demands an open mouth, not skinny torsos and
high relevé’
Little girls always dream in the soles of pink pointe shoes,
but magic approximates deception and the infamous
split blooded toe.
My mother has the home tapes. Me shanae-ing on
kitchen floor so close to the bowl of kiwis I could sense
the lanate growth. Then I got dizzy. Then I fell and
sprained the right ankle. It’s been
twenty-two Broadway shows, twenty-three if you
count the one where Price made us tap dance
on Eighth Avenue to prove to Lenny that we were
diverse and versatile (I don’t know how to tap).
Now, my feet are lumps of unheated coal and a post-it
note folds on the desk of your office, green like the tea I
brew on Saturday afternoons. That,
I guess, must be resignation.
Dance for me now ...
Eyes of polished onyx pierce me like the keen edge
of a scalpel, deftly wielded ...
The blood of my black heart flowing in and around you,
warm and welcomed to your wings and wants ...
The aspiration of our spirits - air between us as still as ruin,
while the world spins outward, ever, a cacophony of color ...
Calm coalescence in a realm of chaos, airborne and harmonious,
sublime, if only ephemeral - if only once ...
I am your vessel, awaiting, I am your barre, to stretch and strain upon,
I am the adoration in your hush, and the dark feathers of your plume ...
I am rapt in awe by such immaculate and lithe form, destroyed
wholly by the feral, flawless grace of your movements ...
I am devoured by the ferocity and exquisite finish of
your line and flow 'en fouette' ...
It is the anger and complete abandon in your expression
that at once terrifies me and slays my spirit ...
That brings all that is demoness to your passion, and all
that is angelic to your erotic ire ...
Spellbound by the dance, I plummet into your shadow,
and let your black wings surround my delirium ...
An aphotic interplay of souls, a forbidden allurement of
figures, a carnal and concupiscent 'pas de deux' of fury ...
Dance with me ...
Now.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Contest Number 360" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Obsession" Poetry Contest, Silent One, Judge & Sponsor.
( N/A'd on 2/28/20 in the "Free Verse On Love" Poetry Contest )
The deep plot of their craft,
the subtle tyranny in flowery cloak
Greek gift from white house “Doctor”
hoped to be a Hero,
and as the Parthian becomes a Nero by a mandate,
so soon t would be a Zero.
sickly old men in power,
compelling all as slaves,
decrees devoid of wisdom,
quacks science as solutions,
the suggestions of moguls,
the media and Presidents,
corona virus their invention
One Fauchi their spokesman,
WHO their propagandist,
preventing clean oxygen with a mask,
Isolation like a monk,
experimental vaccines their cure,
Our choice ignored,
We should ignore the casualties from the experiment,
Compromise our immune system with a Jab,
despite, the “Bell's Palsy”,
The “Myocarditis”,
the “blood clot”, the “guillain-barre Syndrome”
or whatever the effect in the long run,
Just take the Jabs or Loose your Job,
draconian rules like socialists,
intensified folly of Beijing's bio- terrorism.
Kill me Dictator,
I am not your guinea pig
From barre to en pointe.
Ballerino in plié.
Jeté through coda.
*** Sketching the Ballerina ***
It is well, quite well after midnight.
My pup lies fagged on the blanket
as close to me as possible.
The young ballerina sits slightly slumped
On a bench across from the barre, still wearing
Her stage costume with its long net skirt.
I am vexed that the sleeping hour has come.
I grieve to leave her.
She was looking with her black eyes
Directly into my own, asking (as I’m asking myself),
“How can I leave her with a twisted foot?”
The enviable line of the ballerina’s foot, which
“En pointe”
Completes the geometry of the ballet:
Toes coursing the lines of the legs,
On diagonals or paralleling the arms
On through to a pointing fingertip,
With the addition of a superbly angled head.
I grieve having to leave my sketch, to keep
The pretty ballerina in a long-waiting lurch
With her foot twisted, against all her dancer’s instincts;
Against completion of her body line;
Against all her trained and now natural inclinations
Directed to set her preparation
For beginning any elegance in motion;
Add life to the already vibrant music;
Wear her training posture unto every finale’s curtsy
And well deserve the appluse that comes
Along with the roses tossed up
Around her perfect feet…
I simply must put the pencil down,
Wondering how soon before her
Tears might fall while she waits for her foot to be drawn
Correctly arched. The sketch’s error involves
Perhaps a sixteenth of an inch here and there
With the slightest touch of erasing…It’s
The additional light of day,
Which altogether should make a portrait worthy
Of showing to St. Peter as he stands by The Gate.
As she displays her weariness to me,
I must beg her pardon, for it’s now nearly
Three hours past midnight
And my pillow begs for the lay of my head.
My dismal skills must rest
And wait for my sketchpad
To be spread over with beams from
The window’s morning sun.
—————————————————————————————
(c) sally young eslinger 6/2023
Thanks be to God…
How I took for granted, thee!
Now, reaching an age, I began to ponder.
Their truly outstanding history.
Hands that once with grand wonderment
stared at crayon colors.
Tanned, dimpled hands of a girl
Who on beaches made sand castles!
Whilst the waters of Lake Michigan swirled.
And above her pigtailed head,
Clouds moved in tender dance, all
shades of pastels.
In her tutu at the mirror she stared
Her hands loved that Ballef barre
Mother has her costumes by a seamstress
made, because she cared!
The mini Swan Lake-star,looked in her
Mother's tear-filled eyes and with
thankfulness, stared.
In elbowed satin gloves at age sixteen,
she bowed gracefully.
She gave that hand to her proud
father to rise.
A very proud parent of his proud
paternity.
The same hands in schools, years
later covered with chalk.
She made a professional decision
to teach in the ghetto schools of
Chicago and walk her talk.
Not just to say that a "few friends
of mine are black."
But to contribute to black children
getting the best education, of that
there was certainly,a lack!
These same hands who pen this,
poem,not only went to the theater.
But became an improvisational actress,
a stand up comic who held a silvered-
microphone later.
And later,with a beauteous daughter,
by God was she so blessed.
She still remembers the smell of
that angelic hair,as Maria,breathed ever
so softly on her chest.
Now, look at your hands, that have their
own unique history.
God given appendages,,so strong, so rich
with your life's mysteries and histories!
12/30/2020
2:45am PST
Hunger, I dived
In absolute depression
A sterilized sheet
From your world to mine
I have a box
It is cardboard and ripped
Beaten to the curb, returned and dogged
It holds a million memories and cruel reminders
They pull me like a puppet
Dance under clouds of acid rain
As I breathe you in and drown below the barre
Perils and luminance fade into melodramatic ballets
Childish games where everybody dies in the end
Neatly in time with the jump of a rope
I close my eyes in replica beloved
Memorial and fade into sleep
To wake for us both
As you sleep for only one
_
Spandau Ballets are Nazi death marches. When people were marched to the gas chambers that
is a Spandau Ballet.
I'm not talking about the band...though they are/were amazing.
Bitter night
seventeen degrees
all is covered
in frozen white
comforters and blankets
piled so high
tugged up high
warmth to seek
Christmas time
just days away
my night is filled
with guitar dreams
there was a girl
in earlier days
when I was young
in velvet prime
I did sing
in choirs then
and did croon
solos sweet
she did dream
and did long
that just for her
I’d sing my song
she did seek
a music store
where she did buy
a steel guitar
a present then
she made to me
that I might then
for her sing
steel wires
so narrow they
strung so tight
for tender flesh
six to press
with fingers five
twisted to shapes
that hurt my flesh
books of songs
I did buy
and practiced hard
so many hours
steel too hard
and calluses too slow
I did sell
that steel guitar
classic ones
with nylon strings
my fingers found
to be easier be
and more hours
so many long
I did play
a classic guitar
so long ago
when I did try
and I did fail
to play guitar
in dark of night
at Christmas time
I do dream
of bass guitars
strings of four
and a lower pitch
that I could tune
to a open G
then to barre
with finger straight
then playing chords
would simpler be
and the pitch
much lower then
to match my voice
deep and low
I do dream
in dark of night
that I might play
a bass guitar
Ride the night with easy
watch the maker stand so pleased
Remember the final turn home in a faithful surprise
Yet in these in these places through this times u have climbed the crying sky
I have seen your broken chian
we both understand it is hard too deal with the pain
While I was away i had long forgoten of are acquittance
I take no hesitation in our mend for freedom
Only an uncule raven can lead u
Oh heartbroken eagle u have found me after all this years
I'll look in u for my heartless uncyed tears
I am living too share this perfect love u have given me
Soon I know they will see
how a heartbroken eagle can strive in the stuggle
and still remark in surpise in old freind
Boldly we will seek are end
I long for the return home
I am alone
Cold in lonely I spend my time
In the shape I'm in u have shared an eye for eye
I walk around driffting away and sinking through the barre al
I am wounded sharply inside bye out spoken words with no sence
They blindly see the well spoken words of tendence
I long for another moment of glory scared in true
u have now given me a reason too believein u
I think u for the wisdom we have sared and the promises we have too set are pa
real
There's few things in this world
that can bring me to the ground
But these two are different
and I'll show you how
The first is innocent and crazier than you
she's so delicate and needier too
She's something of the sort
I'm not sure what
But she makes me feel strong
because I know she's not
The second I've known 10 years gone
And the coming times promise
good barre none
I could tell you I'm safe deep in her arms
Instead I feel weakened by
the power she owns
I know it sounds crazy, but let me explain
Whatever I do is meant to
destroy me
Now I don't feel I have the strength to carry on
Drained myself of all energy to move along
It's a cripple I have, a weakness if you will
It's one in me that I can't kill
I can't be happy, I must push you away
Because I'm the happiest when im completely in dismay
You are not meditating
You’re not reading
the classics.
not practicing
barre cords on the guitar,
not brushing up
on your French.
You’re just hanging on,
for dear life
by your fingernails.
You’re trying.
Trying
not to eat too much chocolate,
not to snap at your kids,
not to drink too much,
not to cry when you think of
what you’re missing,
or whom.
You are doing
the best you can.
You shower. You work.
You cook, you eat.
You sleep, badly,
and get up in the morning
and do it all over again.
Sometimes, you walk outside
and are astonished
that it is spring.
Sometimes, you breathe
a little deeper
and imagine a life
after this ends.
Sometimes you stop
beating yourself up
for not doing quarantine
the right way.
Published in Thought for Food, 2020
“A vision into
your future
“A mirror
of your past”
(Wilkes Barre Pennsylvania: March, 1980)