Spirits, Dancing

Painting: Carla Wettstein

Having put yourself on the way,
it is inevitable that you
should reach here.  If in
your thoughts you've had
the notion of reward
as you fought to come this far,
banish them.  And,
as penalty for entering,
shed the attitudes of worldly men
regarding us and this
celestial sphere where now
your spirit begs to enter.

From the extremity
to which you've come, you see
us sway in a dance.
It is no sign that we
are happy.  To be happy
is being a step removed
from happiness.  Which we
never are.  Nor are we sad.
Sorrow is man in the world,
and we, the total expression
and awareness of his state,
are sorrowful.

What seems to you,
who were taught to feel
we must fulfill
where the world has failed,
must turn to good the bad,
must invoke permanence
for material whose law
and will it is to die--
what seems to you, driven here
by urgency, a dance
is nothing but the pain in the world
which we like a mirror contain.

To sway is to depart
as branches from a stem,
as shadows from foliage
thick and dark--
and to depart is what is pain.
What you must know before
you enter this domain
and learn the ways of which
we shall not speak is this
first truth of what you are:
a sorrow, a sorrow
begging for home.  Or you
would not have come this far.

~ Arthur Gregor

Spirits, Dancing

Painting: Carla Wettstein

Having put yourself on the way,
it is inevitable that you
should reach here.  If in
your thoughts you've had
the notion of reward
as you fought to come this far,
banish them.  And,
as penalty for entering,
shed the attitudes of worldly men
regarding us and this
celestial sphere where now
your spirit begs to enter.

From the extremity
to which you've come, you see
us sway in a dance.
It is no sign that we
are happy.  To be happy
is being a step removed
from happiness.  Which we
never are.  Nor are we sad.
Sorrow is man in the world,
and we, the total expression
and awareness of his state,
are sorrowful.

What seems to you,
who were taught to feel
we must fulfill
where the world has failed,
must turn to good the bad,
must invoke permanence
for material whose law
and will it is to die--
what seems to you, driven here
by urgency, a dance
is nothing but the pain in the world
which we like a mirror contain.

To sway is to depart
as branches from a stem,
as shadows from foliage
thick and dark--
and to depart is what is pain.
What you must know before
you enter this domain
and learn the ways of which
we shall not speak is this
first truth of what you are:
a sorrow, a sorrow
begging for home.  Or you
would not have come this far.

~ Arthur Gregor

Earth Your Dancing Place

Pic Credit: Favim.com

Beneath heaven's vault
remember always walking
through halls of cloud
down aisles of sunlight
or through high hedges
of the green rain
walk in the world
highheeled with swirl of cape
hand at the swordhilt
of your pride
Keep a tall throat
Remain aghast at life

Enter each day
as upon a stage
lighted and waiting
for your step
Crave upward as flame
have keenness in the nostril
Give your eyes
to agony or rapture

Train your hands
as birds to be
brooding or nimble
Move your body
as the horses
sweeping on slender hooves
over crag and prairie
with fleeing manes
and aloofness of their limbs

Take earth for your own large room
and the floor of earth
carpeted with sunlight
and hung round with silver wind
for your dancing place

~ May Swenson

Earth Your Dancing Place

Pic Credit: Favim.com

Beneath heaven's vault
remember always walking
through halls of cloud
down aisles of sunlight
or through high hedges
of the green rain
walk in the world
highheeled with swirl of cape
hand at the swordhilt
of your pride
Keep a tall throat
Remain aghast at life

Enter each day
as upon a stage
lighted and waiting
for your step
Crave upward as flame
have keenness in the nostril
Give your eyes
to agony or rapture

Train your hands
as birds to be
brooding or nimble
Move your body
as the horses
sweeping on slender hooves
over crag and prairie
with fleeing manes
and aloofness of their limbs

Take earth for your own large room
and the floor of earth
carpeted with sunlight
and hung round with silver wind
for your dancing place

~ May Swenson

Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch

Foreword to “Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch”

This poem is more properly a “dance poem” than a song or chant because the element of repetition is created by movements of language rather than duplicating words and sounds. However, it is in the spirit of ritual recitation that I wrote it/ a performance to drive away bad spirits perhaps.

The story behind the poem is this: a man and woman who have been living together for some time separate. Part of the pain of separation involves possessions which they had shared. They both angrily believe they should have what they want. She asks for some possession and he denies her the right to it. She replies that she gave him money for a possession which he has and therefore should have what she wants now. He replies that she has forgotten that for the number of years they lived together he never charged her rent and if he had she would now owe him $7,000.

She is appalled that he equates their history with a sum of money. She is even more furious to realize that this sum of money represents the entire rent on the apartment and implies that he should not have paid anything at all. She is furious. She kills him mentally. Once and for all she decides she is well rid of this man and that she shouldn’t feel sad at their parting. She decides to prove to herself that she’s glad he’s gone from her life. With joy she will dance on all the bad memories of their life together.

Photo credit: ecerroni from morguefile.com

for my motorcycle betrayer

God damn it,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man;
            you’ve stepped on my shadow once too often,  
you’ve been unfaithful to me with other women,
women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think I might  
ever
be put
in the same category with them;
you’ve left me alone so often that I might as well have been  
a homesteader in Alaska
these past years;
and you’ve left me, thrown me out of your life
often enough
that I might as well be a newspaper,
differently discarded each day.
Now you’re gone for good
and I don’t know why
but your leaving actually made me as miserable
as an earthworm with no
earth,
but now I’ve crawled out of the ground where you stomped me  
and I gradually stand taller and taller each
day.
I have learned to sing new songs,
and as I sing,
I’m going to dance on your grave
because you are
          dead  
          dead  
          dead
under the earth with the rest of the shit,
I’m going to plant deadly nightshade
on your grassy mound
and make sure a hemlock tree starts growing there.
Henbane is too good for you,
but I’ll let a bit grow there for good measure
because we want to dance,
we want to sing,
we want to throw this old man
to the wolves,
but they are too beautiful for him, singing in harmony
with each other.
                   So some white wolves and I
will sing on your grave, old man
and dance for the joy of your death.
“Is this an angry statement?”
                            “No, it is a statement of joy.”
“Will the sun shine again?”
                            "Yes,
                            yes,
                            yes,”
                            because I’m going to dance dance dance  
Duncan’s measure, and Pindar’s tune,
Lorca’s cadence, and Creeley’s hum,
Stevens’ sirens and Williams’ little Morris dance,  
oh, the poets will call the tune,
and I will dance, dance, dance
on your grave, grave, grave,
because you’re a sonofabitch, a sonofabitch,  
and you tried to do me in,
but you cant cant cant.
You were a liar in a way that only I know:  
            You ride a broken motorcycle,  
            You speak a dead language
            You are a bad plumber,
            And you write with an inkless pen.  
You were mean to me,
and I’ve survived,
God damn you,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,  
old man,
I’m going to learn every traditional dance,  
every measure,
and dance dance dance on your grave
                                                    one step
for every time
you done me wrong.

~ Diane Wakoski

Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch

Foreword to “Dancing on the Grave of a Son of a Bitch”

This poem is more properly a “dance poem” than a song or chant because the element of repetition is created by movements of language rather than duplicating words and sounds. However, it is in the spirit of ritual recitation that I wrote it/ a performance to drive away bad spirits perhaps.

The story behind the poem is this: a man and woman who have been living together for some time separate. Part of the pain of separation involves possessions which they had shared. They both angrily believe they should have what they want. She asks for some possession and he denies her the right to it. She replies that she gave him money for a possession which he has and therefore should have what she wants now. He replies that she has forgotten that for the number of years they lived together he never charged her rent and if he had she would now owe him $7,000.

She is appalled that he equates their history with a sum of money. She is even more furious to realize that this sum of money represents the entire rent on the apartment and implies that he should not have paid anything at all. She is furious. She kills him mentally. Once and for all she decides she is well rid of this man and that she shouldn’t feel sad at their parting. She decides to prove to herself that she’s glad he’s gone from her life. With joy she will dance on all the bad memories of their life together.

Photo credit: ecerroni from morguefile.com

for my motorcycle betrayer

God damn it,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,
old man;
            you’ve stepped on my shadow once too often,  
you’ve been unfaithful to me with other women,
women so cheap and insipid it psychs me out to think I might  
ever
be put
in the same category with them;
you’ve left me alone so often that I might as well have been  
a homesteader in Alaska
these past years;
and you’ve left me, thrown me out of your life
often enough
that I might as well be a newspaper,
differently discarded each day.
Now you’re gone for good
and I don’t know why
but your leaving actually made me as miserable
as an earthworm with no
earth,
but now I’ve crawled out of the ground where you stomped me  
and I gradually stand taller and taller each
day.
I have learned to sing new songs,
and as I sing,
I’m going to dance on your grave
because you are
          dead  
          dead  
          dead
under the earth with the rest of the shit,
I’m going to plant deadly nightshade
on your grassy mound
and make sure a hemlock tree starts growing there.
Henbane is too good for you,
but I’ll let a bit grow there for good measure
because we want to dance,
we want to sing,
we want to throw this old man
to the wolves,
but they are too beautiful for him, singing in harmony
with each other.
                   So some white wolves and I
will sing on your grave, old man
and dance for the joy of your death.
“Is this an angry statement?”
                            “No, it is a statement of joy.”
“Will the sun shine again?”
                            "Yes,
                            yes,
                            yes,”
                            because I’m going to dance dance dance  
Duncan’s measure, and Pindar’s tune,
Lorca’s cadence, and Creeley’s hum,
Stevens’ sirens and Williams’ little Morris dance,  
oh, the poets will call the tune,
and I will dance, dance, dance
on your grave, grave, grave,
because you’re a sonofabitch, a sonofabitch,  
and you tried to do me in,
but you cant cant cant.
You were a liar in a way that only I know:  
            You ride a broken motorcycle,  
            You speak a dead language
            You are a bad plumber,
            And you write with an inkless pen.  
You were mean to me,
and I’ve survived,
God damn you,
at last I am going to dance on your grave,  
old man,
I’m going to learn every traditional dance,  
every measure,
and dance dance dance on your grave
                                                    one step
for every time
you done me wrong.

~ Diane Wakoski