Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Dance

   

“Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance.”— Confucius

SOURCE

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame.”— W.B. Yeats

       Midweek Motif ~ Dance

As I was thinking about this Dance motif some lines of Leonard Cohen sang out loud in my mind:

          “Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

     Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in

    Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

                              Dance me to the end of love

                              Dance me to the end of love….”

The whole universe is in a dance mode. It would be interesting to see where you find that rhythm and beat to capture it in your lines.

It might be in the flow of a river; in rolling of waves; in raindrops; in the rhythm of seasons, day and night; in the flight of a bird; in birth; in death; in a stage performance.

There are numerous forms / types of dance. It would be lovely to read about them if you choose one of them to write about; or about the life of any well-known dancer.

And why not about dance costumes, props, masks and shoes?

Give today’s motif a unique interpretation of your like:

A few poems to share with you: 

The Dance

by William Carlos Williams

In Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess,
the dancers go round, they go round and
around, the squeal and the blare and the
tweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles
tipping their bellies (round as the thick-
sided glasses whose wash they impound)
their hips and their bellies off balance
to turn them. Kicking and rolling
about the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those
shanks must be sound to bear up under such
rollicking measures, prance as they dance
in Brueghel's great picture, The Kermess.

SOURCE

326

by Emily Dickinson

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

That had I Ballet knowledge—
Would put itself abroad
In Pirouette to blanch a Troupe—
Or lay a Prima, mad,

And though I had no Gown of Gauze—
No Ringlet, to my Hair,
Nor hopped to Audiences—like Birds,
One Claw upon the Air,

Nor tossed my shape in Eider Balls,
Nor rolled on wheels of snow
Till I was out of sight, in sound,
The House encore me so—

Nor any know I know the Art
I mention—easy—Here—
Nor any Placard boast me—
It's full as Opera— 

Here is another link to a poem by Langston Hughes:

Dream Variations

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

(Next week Magaly's Midweek Motif will be ~ not-so-old-fashioned 'Hobbies')

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

"Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants"--Epictetus

Child Plutus, Greek god of Wealth)

"To be wealthy and honored in an unjust society is a disgrace"--Confucius

"Resolve not to be poor: whatever you have, spend less. Poverty is a great enemy to human happiness; it certainly destroys liberty, and it makes some virtues impracticable, and others extremely difficult."--Samuel Johnson


"I would like to live as a poor man with lots of money."--Pablo Picasso


"You may have tangible wealth untold; caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be, I had a mother who read to me."--Strickland Gillian


                                     Midweek Motif ~ Wealth

Many people, the sensitive ones particularly, poets for example, have faith in this quote: If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can’t buy.

Yes it’s wonderful to have treasures that do not cost anything.

The word Wealth has a broad spectrum and varied meanings.

F.A.Walker specifies, "Wealth comprises all articles of value and nothing else", while The American heritage of Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition defines wealth as "the state of being rich and affluent; having a plentiful supply of material goods and money".

The subject of Wealth is today's topic: whatever wealth means to us.

Wealth

By Langston Hughes

From Christ to Ghandi

Appears this truth-St. Francis of AssisiProves it, too:Goodness becomes grandeurSurpassing might of kings.Halos of kindnessBrighter shineThan crowns of gold,And brighterThan rich diamondsSparkles The simple dewOf love

The Moment

By Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. 

Weekend Glory

By Maya Angelou

Some clichty folks

don't know the facts,

posin' and preenin'

and puttin' on acts,

stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos

up over the ranks,

pawn their souls

to the local banks.

Buying big cars

they can't afford,

ridin' around town

actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right

they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant

ain't the biggest bet,

but I pay my bills

and stay out of debt.

I get my hair done

for my own self's sake,

so I don't have to pick

and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out

and head cross town

to my friend girl's house

where we plan our round.

We meet our men and go to a joint

where the music is blue

and to the point.

Folks write about me.

They just can't see

how I work all week

at the factory.

Then get spruced up

and laugh and dance

And turn away from worry

with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'

from day to day,

but who are they kiddin'?

So are they.

My life ain't heaven

but it sure ain't hell.

I'm not on top

but I call it swell

if I'm able to work

and get paid right

and have the luck to be Black

on a Saturday night.

Blood Money

By Syl Cheney-Coker

Along the route of this river,

with a little luck, we shall chance upon

our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile

reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra

growing fiery mornings from our discontent

Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,

not honor pristine and profound.

In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips

those cups filled with ethnic offerings

that saps the blood of all human good.

Having no other country to call my own

except for this one full of pine needles

on which we nail our children's lives,

I have put off examining this skull,

savage harvest, the swollen earth,

until that day when, all God's children,

we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.

And remorse not being theirs to feel,

I offer an inventory of abuse by these men,

with this wretched earth on my palms,

so as to remind them of our stilted growth

the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer

the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.

                                       (Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be ~ Conversation )

                 

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Home

source

"The strength of a nation derives from the integrity of the home"----Confucius

"Everyday is a journey and the journey itself is home"----Matsuo Basho

"Home is the nicest word there is"----Laura Ingalls Wilder

"How does it feel?
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?"----Bob Dylan

                                                         

                                        Midweek Motif ~ Home

A home is a full stop to being a nomadic. And add to that a little safety, comfort, freedom, a space to be. Especially for a creative mind "A room of one's own" is a must.

The saying home is where the heart is extends the meaning of home beyond the four walls. One may feel at home where ever they are or with whoever they are.

Creating a sense of home in our lines is our aim today.

A couple of poems to inspire you:

He told a homely tale

by Emily Dickinson

He told a homely tale
And spotted it with tears--
Upon his infant face was set
The Cicatrice of years--

All crumpled was the cheek
No other kiss had known
Than flake of snow, divided with
The Redbreast of the barn--

If Mother--in the Grave--
Or Father-- on the Sea--
Or Father in the Firmament--
Or Brethren, had he--

If Commonwealth below,
Or Commonwealth above
Have missed a Barefoot Citizen--
I've ransomed it--alive--

Home thoughts

by Carl Sandburg

THE SEA rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.

Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.

Speak to me of the drag on your heart.
The iron drag of the long days.

I know hours empty as a beggar's tin cup on a rainy day, empty as a soldier's sleeve with an arm lost.

Speak to me ...


Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community
                         (Next week Susan's Midweek Motif will be Organic)
                                                                       

The Living Dead

Honouring our poetic ancestors

The Soldier
— Anonymous

I climbed the barren mountain,

And my gaze swept far and wide

For the red-lit eaves of my father's home,

And I fancied that he sighed:

My son has gone for a soldier,

For a soldier night and day;

But my son is wise, and may yet return,

When the drums have died away.

I climbed the grass-clad mountain,

And my gaze swept far and wide

For the rosy lights of a little room,

Where I thought my mother sighed:

My boy has gone for a soldier,

He sleeps not day and night;

But my boy is wise, and may yet return,

Though the dead lie far from sight.

I climbed the topmost summit,

And my gaze swept far and wide

For the garden roof where my brother stood,

And I fancied that he sighed:

My brother serves as a soldier

With his comrades night and day;

But my brother is wise and may yet return,

Though the dead lie far away.

From odes collected by Confucius about 500BC,  translated by L. Cranmer-Byng in A Lute of Jade. London, John Murray, 1909. (Wisdom of the East series.)

My father passed this little treasure of a book on to me in 1964, from his own library, along with its companion volume, A Feast of Lanterns, knowing I had loved them when I was growing up. 

In his introduction to A Lute of Jade, L. Cranmer-Byng explains that the odes collected by Confucius (one section of the book) were the folk poems of the common people of the era 1765-585 BC. 

I think it's easy to understand this as the thoughts of any soldier remembering home, and any family thinking of the one who is away soldiering. In those times, in feudal China, I imagine there wasn't much choice about joining the army if there was a war to be fought.

There are places in the world where there is not much choice about it even now.  And even when it is a chosen occupation, that doesn't take away the soldier's home-sickness or the family's concern. It's easy to relate to this deceptively simple little ditty.

The song-like repetitions effectively illustrate the return of the soldier's thoughts to his home and family, and also make the different individual details in each verse more striking by comparison. From just those few details, I get a strong image of the home he remembers.

I wonder if climbing the mountain is a metaphor for dying and looking down from Heaven — but I prefer to take it literally, and that's poignant enough. 

So long ago and far away, I hope he came home safe in the end, as we hope they all do.