Best Choreographer Poems
open your doors
close all the windows
sleeping's such a bore
suffocate it with pillows
psh, i'm not hellbent
shut your mouth
it's called character development
WOOPS. broke routine again
and the poem's gone south.
made myself out to be the bad guy
so they wouldn't feel as sad when i die
so many
so many damn times you told me
all those uplifting words regarding my significance
did i ever stop to listen?
now look at all this tension
i am the patient
you're the asylum
this heart rate is hesitant
unless you revive them
i'm the addiction and
you are the needle
i'm the mutilation
you're the scars that will heal
i am the stash
and you're the supplier
i am the match and
you are the fire
you are the truth
and i am the dare
you are the daydream
i'm the nightmare
i am the cigarette
you are the lighter
i am the pirouette
you're the choreographer
we all are so sad
we've both lost our thrill
that's just too bad but
we both know the drill
made myself out to be the bad guy
so i wouldn't feel as sad when i die
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”
~Oscar Wilde
the sky smiles as it watches us
dance in the light of a silver moon
on the veranda of an infinite cosmos~
the only way to make a star
dance in the light of a silver moon,
to music of the spheres as it falls
into a symphony of our poem
on the veranda of an infinite cosmos
where time is the choreographer
of tangos and tragedies~
the only only way to make a star
is with each spark of love we fling
into night's lengthening shadow.
her untamable sakura spirit
glows like sweet scents
of petrichor peace,
perfumed in jasmine water,
whilst there’s no path
to golden rays of sunlight,
she shines for the elite vines
trailing through silver
gates of heaven.
and when the sky is a sea
of lilac lanterns,
and mauve mists,
shifting amidst
raining rhinestones
etched with mood-swings,
she remembers~
God as the choreographer
the mindful maestro,
tranquilizing trees tangled
with roots of torment.
but chocolate cosmos
remain blindfolded
by pearly lilies,
as the salmon-hued
bird of paradise
blossoms from
neglected lines
of caramelized skin,
she still sprouts in solitude,
delicate but
powerfully growing
from sepia roots
of grief and regrets,
lessons learned
through wisteria wisdom
earned from
turmeric truth,
and holistic hymns of the
almighty that echo
in captivating cadence~
as spiritual songs
of sepals flourish
amidst withering petals,
there her frost-bitten
soul found a healing field
in a poetic reverie,
where lyrical lines
float above mulberry meadows,
sowing hyacinth herbs of kindness~
painting petunias in patience,
silently sprinkling
enticing anemones
as an inevitable sign
of eternal hope to freedom.
A poetic earth that shall remain
untouched amidst the cruel wind
that blow it’s way through,
while lakes of longing
emanate soulful sagas,
synchronized from strings
of moon-kissed stars,
unfurling light when darkness
dwell upon dreary hearts.
Mother-nature, compassionate
spirit,
I hear her plea for
empathetic emeralds,
engrossed with
righteous rubies,
from topaz tenderness.
here, in singing silence,
I stretch my heart to
seraphic spheres,
for she lies in solitary stillness.
Let the beating hearts
of walking silhouettes
manifest silken fate for her
divine aura.
Rivers may no longer flow,
and flowers may
no longer be fragrant,
but faith shall
never be perished,
and the wildest forests
of her heart shall forever
flare evergreen
dreams of tomorrow.
My cool unseen choreographer
I bow and sway to your directions.
O sonorous wind friend of willows
In your moments of frenzy and calm
I like a tree move to your whim -
Plucked like strings under a maestro’s finger
I quiver, become taut again, waiting
To hear you whisper 'dance with me again'.
In this moment, the present here and now
Close to you in my hour of prayer
Oh! how I feel the flowing of power
In the here and now, thank you for care
Your glorious care, power, love, Father
You are gentle spirit everywhere
You are the great loving choreographer
Of lives working everything for good
The greatest spirit that is our coacher
Thank you loving Father for Son who stood
In my stead, bled and was nailed on my wood
“Howdy Amos”, “Howdy Seth”, without a glance.
Amos t’aint much for words as he stares straight ahead
His gaze as straight as his furrows.
Amos is what you might call a “deep thinker”.
I watch as he bounces up and down on the plow hitch
The bells on his mighty Percherons jingling with each practiced step
As they perform their timeworn ballet with Amos their choreographer.
I wonder what Amos is thinking and then I remember our last conversation.
Did I say Amos t’aint much for words?
Well, it seemed as though his “word dam” had finally overflowed
As he told me about the girl he met
At the Limerick Town Hall dance last Saturday night.
He said he watched the most wonderful girl in the world dance with every guy
Who was standing in line for their turn listening
To the out-of-tune piano player and drummer
Who called themselves the Limerick Two.
During the band’s first break, she came over to where Amos was sitting.
Smiling, she introduced herself as Irene from just down the street.
Amos didn’t disappoint her because, as usual, he was at a loss for words,
But he was a “deep thinker”
And he was thinking she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
“Would you like to dance?” She asked. Amos just nodded his head.
Amos was the last guy she danced with that night
As Irene's waiting line kept getting longer and longer.
Amos said his feet didn’t touch the ground as he walked home
To West Newfield late that night.
Amos t’aint much for words,
But when he speaks, his words, though few, are poetic.
As I watch Amos plowing with horses, I know what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking about next Saturday night and his first dance with Irene.
I turn my back and continue my journey,
The sounds of the great Percheron’s bells fading in the distance
As Amos continues plowing with horses and dreaming of Irene.
Leaves of burnished gold take flight
Whirling spirals, with childish delight
A final pirouette without a sound
Before they sadly hit the ground
Their dance is done, they take their place
Piously accepting autumn,with simple grace
Wearing faded colors of garnet, gold and green
They serenely exit, from the final scene
The footlights diminished for another year
Until the choreographer of Spring, faithfully reappears
Leaves will emerge in sunshine and bathe in the rain
A glorious celebration for the dance to begin again
STAGE BENEATH HER FEET*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
before the lights ignite,
she stands, a silhouette of dreams,
silk slippers whispering against the wood.
the stage, her steadfast confidant,
is the only applause she ever needs.
how the world adores the spectacle,
the pirouettes that seem to float,
the leaps that defy gravity!
beyond spotlight is the quiet joy of motion,
the grace of being, the art of losing oneself.
each twirl, a conversation with the air,
each leap, a promise to the crowd.
dancing is a wrapped gift opened
in the silence between the notes.
she dances not for their gaze,
but for the stage that cradles her spirit.
she dances for the magic of movement
as if she were born to sway
in the arms of the music,
the notes swirling like autumn leaves.
*This poem written in remembrance of my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson, a prima ballerina, who recently passed. She dedicated her life to ballet, first as a performer then later as a ballet teacher, choreographer, and original owner of the Dallas Metropolitcan Ballet.
HANDMAIDEN OF MOON DANCING
fly me to stars in the thrill of one swan night
over a crescent arc to feel a flame of sighs,
teasing dreams so silent yet ever wild
and like a neon light, speak through your feet ,
your ribs twirling in drips of summer’s rage : throw
away the restraint of confined movements
dictated by a body unmoved; of a flower
keeping her flutters from crawling freely on grass
give me a sway through leaps unto ocean’s swell
without need for thought or reason, rather,
lift the flesh made from love or hate, to burst
with primitive heat; fingers liquid in motion unbidden
by a sacred place that doesn’t exist on earth, when
all but the fragrance of a naked skin expresses
the very force that writhes in the faint of depth,
licking the cells inside out.. weightless, bold, soft
dance the crazy dance with me just because
such passion needs to flow along rhythms
burning within… till a weave of spin breaks
into a trance blending a wanton glide with
pirouetting flights raw in some meadow clearing,
pious pose under the tangerine of touch…
handmaiden of moonlight dancing on flames
pluck those eyes ,rise above mortal remains.
©
*i tweaked this free verse with a sonnet’s volta
in the last two lines (10 syl rhyme count instead
of the usual 8 syl pattern)
----------
*Martha Graham is the pioneer of modern dance. As a ballet dancer
and choreographer, she introduced inner movement emphasizing
emotion, spontaneity, and an exploration of psycho-social themes
( feminism, political protest, and labor unrest)through free -flow
of innovative steps, thwarting cultural control over conventional,
metered dance. Her last performance on-stage was in 1970,
at the age of 76; she was working on the choreography for the Olympics
when she died in 1991 at the age of 97.
Graham was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1976
by President Gerald Ford and cited by Time Magazine as
"Dancer of the Century" in 1988, aside from her other accolades.
*Source: Wikipedia.com and www.voanews.com
*Please watch
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OUoMc5Am_c0&feature=related
‘ ‘’’’’ ‘’’’
For Cyndi Mac Millan’s Maverick by nette onclaud
Painter paints with a brush and hooded mind.
Dentist extracts, injects with a pointed mind.
Mind of cacophony is what a singer has.
Orator hails, evading a faux pas.
Chef cooks with an aproned mind.
Scientist invents, minded with formulas.
Cartoonist strokes, gifted with artistry
Dubber voices over to cover up travesty.
A wrestler can break anybody with a ranting mind.
Audience can just watch and listen with a calming mind.
If a dancer prances with a swirling mind
then a choreographer can relax to unwind.
So many other occupations with distinct minds,
Instructive of vocations and interests
descriptive of master minds.
What is your job?
I saw her a milky complexion and a voluptuous frame , she had a name but no surname noone gave her a surname .
I found her similar less incommon a saree she had draped in an impious commotion to look like what she had to look like .
Little choice did she had to hide the wonders of her skin which were not wonders to her , the brightness of her smile nd her cleavage were unholy to them to her , it was mere piece of flesh scotched and held tight without any pocession she was never touched with admiration but only exploitation.
They scorn at her as she is relegated but forget to question her origin before grabbing her , forgot which caste did she uphold because for them she was not a piece of art but a Harlot , her beauty was perhaps sold .
Her feminsm staked for the pleasure of a night nd she cried , she cried not of the pain it gave her but about every remark of unholy and stained sexuality which slapped in her nightmares of open eyes maybe she too complained but her complaints sucked in by mouths of holy men .
But wait , last night she too saw a dream of all holy men where she was also one of them no less was she revered wearing a saree washed with dignity this time .
Her speech as a monologue of her aspirations and not melancholy of compulsory sex . Her lips now echoing the eulogy of her power , they stained her skin but couldn't reach her heart .
Maybe she wants to be a doctor , an actor , a choreographer a singer or a poet but no one asked her . Her demeanour no more sluggish say hello to the newborn priggish her prefix is not just a prostitute , her life is much more than bodily servitude .
No less than a pandit she is a sensational prelude so the next time you see a prostitute just smile at her not for her stained sexuality but for her soul’s individuality because her soul remains
Unstained .
By : Ridhi bhutani ( herfingerwings)
He is as He always was and forever will be, Master Choreographer
- director of my soul.
I begin to utter strength from my lips... and then from my mouth
words of wisdom flow. In gentle, brave solitude I learn to walk,
know and become whole.
Touching my once empty wick which is now filled with golden
blue fire to the other still empty wicks... deep healing begins.
Enlighten me to pass on your heart's desire and guide our
brightened essence. We are yours and you are ours.
Father of lights hear the candles burn with our quiet joy.
S.E. Clark copyright 2011
Pied piper Spider Spidy web poet of Lill
Jabbed by muse Arachne she got dressed to kill
She met her hubby Punisluffer
An web ballet choreographer
In fret and flirt she chomped his heart-a lovechill
Fluorescent signs shout
"Liquor" and "***,"
cardboard boxes
hold the land hostage,
pushers and prostitutes
pirouette
with survival
their only choreographer.
Dancer of the darkness silhoutte of the night
gleaming of the placent moon- thy only light.
Mesmerizing is thy perfected form – dance
For the night belongs to you- private dancer.
Upright flowing motion of thine own heart.
Beautiful silhouette established character-
Choreographer is thine own life’s events.
At thy very best thy art a fashioned danceur-
Expresser of the most regal highest nobility.
Glide- exhibit your most expressive ballet
for the most romantic chantey is playing.