CAPTURE Drawing by Candace Knapp
27 inches x 35 inches Photo Bjorn Andren
CAPTURE
So here it was Friday night, hard day at work,
needed to break loose...boogie down
I went to this place...cool and dark
they were playing jazz...not the frantic kind
the slow jazz I like to dance to
sipped my gin and tonic and looked around the room
over on the right ... a clearing on the dance floor
Who will care if I dance alone?
I saunter over
like that word “saunter”
start to feel it...start to move leaning a little on the music
rhythms creeping up my spine
I’m good, real good!
Then I bump into my box ...
What that jerk said at the meeting...
All the stuff I have to do next week...
What will happen next?
Will I be able to handle it?
All dark and smokey
my deepest fear appears before me.
I call him the boogie man
He is big but I have all the right moves.
Can’t capture me.
I slide right by.
Long as I keep moving I feel alright.
That made me smile. Instant recognition!! This image reminds me of that series of large drawings you did for your Arts Center show. Really nice.
ReplyDeleteI love the word "saunter" too!!! Here's a poem about dancing by Mary Oliver I thought you would like = )
ReplyDeleteWhere Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?
Don't call this world adorable, or useful, that's not it.
It's frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.
The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.
The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.
But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white
feet of the trees
whose mouths open.
Doesn't the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?
Haven't the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,
until at last, now, they shine
in your own yard?
Don't call this world an explanation, or even an education.
When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking
outward, to the mountains so solidly there
in a white-capped ring, or was he looking
to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea
that was also there,
beautiful as a thumb
curved and touching the finger, tenderly,
little love-ring,
as he whirled,
oh jug of breath,
in the garden of dust?
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Why I Wake Early, 2004)