Editor’s note: These two poems came across my desk recently. I was struck by their beauty and the power of dance, both as imagery and inspiration.

The first, by Janet Fagal, is in honor of NLAPW Central New York Branch sister member, Yolanda Tooley. Ms. Tooley is a self-taught master photographer. Ms. Fagal writes: “Her love of the arts and the endeavors of talented artists and writers in the Central New York area knew no bounds. She is the most gracious, warm, incredible person.” She is now in hospice care, and Ms. Fagal dedicates this poem to her.

May 11 is also the birthdate of celebrated choreographer Martha Graham. To all who dance, whether it’s only in your hearts, thank you. We’d like to hear what dancing has meant to you. And thank you also to our choreographer members in the Music classification.–Treanor Baring

The Long and Short of It

She slept, entwined in tubes,
hair twisted,
frayed ribbon snaking through each braid,
unafraid.

Time slipped, dreams preferred,
thoughts enlisted,
new blood snaking through each vein,
they prayed.

Hope spread, life reframed,
love persisted,
wishes snaking through each breath,
death delayed.

They prayed
unafraid.
She stayed,
death delayed.
And then
she danced.

by Janet Fagal
Central New York Branch

Song of the Dancer

(with apologies to Staley Kunitz’s “King of the River”)

If the dream were real
if the dream were a ballerina,
but the dream is not real
the dream is not a ballerina,
you would see yourself
slipped into an eternal prayer
dancing out of your skin
prancing over daisies naked
Leaping tripping
Pirouetting over wooden floors
till your feet bleed
with your belly’s ego
Gyrating Gypsy,
over fields of gold
till you paste them with your essence

If the talent were given you
but it is not given,
for the toes are covered
in satin deceptions
and the iridescent image capers
You would surprise yourself
in that other ballet
bruised,
battering toward the dark
that heels the coutour of the foot.

The cheeks of your face redden.
You have become doll of the stage
The great dance of your life
has slackened,
and the small instruments run wild
the impresario ignored
as you dance
and dance
and dance.

For this you were born.
the show, the lights, the tut
the ever-bearing rhythm
you dance and never lose the beat,
the adagio playing in your head
in your gut
in you feet
in your dreams.

by Christina Laurie
Cape Cod Branch, MA