Mixing Passions
I've been thinking for a while that I want to write a poem about dancing. It's such an intense feeling to me, one that seemed beyond words so I wanted the challenge of trying to put it in words. As a result it's one of the longest poems I've ever written. I'm pretty proud of it. Please enjoy:
When I Dance
One deep breath and I’m gone.
I’m gone, out of reach and out of touch.
And I’m talking to you.
I’m showing you something,
something lodged in my stomach,
something I’ve been choking on for a while now.
I’m showing you something,
Something heavy and bright in my palms,
Something that’s mine, made from my own fire and need.
And this beat, this boom clap, this bass hit, this hook, this lyric, this tugging melody,
this beat is my chariot
and it takes me to a quiet place
where the world is just a fuzzy hush along the edges.
Now I’m there,
I’m here and I can show you.
I can write it all down.
My arms are the sentences.
My wrists are question marks.
My fingertips are ellipses and they dot dot dot my message with peeking pauses.
My chest is the hammer, meant to drive the argument home.
My hips are the twist, the part of the story you don’t see coming,
the sudden curves without the ahead sign.
My legs are the plot, which you must follow to see my story balance and follow through.
And my feet,
ahh my feet,
besides sneaker blurs they are the punctuation
as they punch in each comma and full stop.
My foot notes are made from foot notes
as my heal toes sing and draw every plotline fresh and garish across the page.
One deep breath and I’m gone.
Lost in the counting whirlwind of point and counterpoint,
pivots and similes as my story becomes my music
and my music becomes my blood.
It cuts through me and flows like summer wine
drunken and dark and luscious and shimmering.
I show you something naked, something deep down.
And I finish when my blood stiffens
and choking again I sweat cold passion.
I have shown you something alive and too much
and I pray you understood.
When I Dance
One deep breath and I’m gone.
I’m gone, out of reach and out of touch.
And I’m talking to you.
I’m showing you something,
something lodged in my stomach,
something I’ve been choking on for a while now.
I’m showing you something,
Something heavy and bright in my palms,
Something that’s mine, made from my own fire and need.
And this beat, this boom clap, this bass hit, this hook, this lyric, this tugging melody,
this beat is my chariot
and it takes me to a quiet place
where the world is just a fuzzy hush along the edges.
Now I’m there,
I’m here and I can show you.
I can write it all down.
My arms are the sentences.
My wrists are question marks.
My fingertips are ellipses and they dot dot dot my message with peeking pauses.
My chest is the hammer, meant to drive the argument home.
My hips are the twist, the part of the story you don’t see coming,
the sudden curves without the ahead sign.
My legs are the plot, which you must follow to see my story balance and follow through.
And my feet,
ahh my feet,
besides sneaker blurs they are the punctuation
as they punch in each comma and full stop.
My foot notes are made from foot notes
as my heal toes sing and draw every plotline fresh and garish across the page.
One deep breath and I’m gone.
Lost in the counting whirlwind of point and counterpoint,
pivots and similes as my story becomes my music
and my music becomes my blood.
It cuts through me and flows like summer wine
drunken and dark and luscious and shimmering.
I show you something naked, something deep down.
And I finish when my blood stiffens
and choking again I sweat cold passion.
I have shown you something alive and too much
and I pray you understood.