Ignatz
3rd Level Red Feather
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- Aug 25, 2003
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For some reason, I am moved to share this with you all. (I don't know if I'm saving my sanity or throwing the first handful of it away.)
TERPSICHORE
Before the curtain, the people come in
Speaking, laughing, smiling and not,
Confident, tentative, giddy and solemn.
Some carry their worries over their arm.
Others prefer to keep them on,
Wrapped against the air of the theater.
Backstage, the comings and goings are swift
And headlong, frantic, and measured.
The talk is low, the laughter a whisper,
But constant and mingled as the murmur out front.
Parallel Babels, aware of each other,
Rush through their lifespans and die with the lights.
The stage is ablaze now; the dream begins
With music and dancing and song, and in
The darkened wing, with players poised
To enter and hands to pull and shove,
You dance alone like a joyous Muse
Who has come to exult in our play.
In and out, up and down,
You mirror the steps of the stars.
Deftly, nimbly, just like a sprite
Caught in the spell we have woven.
Our flame will not burn you, sweet fluttering thing,
It's an offering that only illumines.
A Muse knows best what agony lies
Behind the gaiety displayed for show,
And something of relief is there in your smile,
Bespeaking a world-weary sorrow
Which we have assuaged with our small devotion
To Art and the crowd has drowned with applause.
Part goddess, part child! I worship and dote.
Does anyone see you but I? You whirl
Close by me and spin my heart in your wake.
You rest near my side and I tremble. A longing
To touch you becomes What I Am, and I know
There will be nothing left when you're gone.
Copyright 2004 by Charles R. Meek
TERPSICHORE
Before the curtain, the people come in
Speaking, laughing, smiling and not,
Confident, tentative, giddy and solemn.
Some carry their worries over their arm.
Others prefer to keep them on,
Wrapped against the air of the theater.
Backstage, the comings and goings are swift
And headlong, frantic, and measured.
The talk is low, the laughter a whisper,
But constant and mingled as the murmur out front.
Parallel Babels, aware of each other,
Rush through their lifespans and die with the lights.
The stage is ablaze now; the dream begins
With music and dancing and song, and in
The darkened wing, with players poised
To enter and hands to pull and shove,
You dance alone like a joyous Muse
Who has come to exult in our play.
In and out, up and down,
You mirror the steps of the stars.
Deftly, nimbly, just like a sprite
Caught in the spell we have woven.
Our flame will not burn you, sweet fluttering thing,
It's an offering that only illumines.
A Muse knows best what agony lies
Behind the gaiety displayed for show,
And something of relief is there in your smile,
Bespeaking a world-weary sorrow
Which we have assuaged with our small devotion
To Art and the crowd has drowned with applause.
Part goddess, part child! I worship and dote.
Does anyone see you but I? You whirl
Close by me and spin my heart in your wake.
You rest near my side and I tremble. A longing
To touch you becomes What I Am, and I know
There will be nothing left when you're gone.
Copyright 2004 by Charles R. Meek
