Through a brass
lamp lit window on a tv screen
I see Maya
Plisetskaya, at 50 years, muscles lean,
animate the
stage, her arms and legs insist
while woodwinds
and brass resist
Easing the
tension. And she gives us the chance
To see the
dancer become the dance;
I am rapt
before her blazing soul in motion;
She becomes
the bolero, like an insistent ocean,
like the petals
of roses on the dunes in a breeze,
like the waving
fruit of branches on swaying trees;
She makes
me light like butterflies in a sunny grove
or the airy
laughter of brave surfers in a cove.
I want her
to dance till the barley waves at the sky
till the
swallows swoop with sunny joy,
till the
lions and tigers all grow tame,
till she
moves so fast she forgets her name.
Like a
spirit, the wind dances the dust on the street;
But I have
never see a spirit with her dancing feet.
Like a
white sail-boat cutting the ebb-and-flow,
Like the foam
on the silver edge of the lake below,
Like the
beat of the tide on the arc of the shore,
Like the
rhythm of my heart asking for more.
Through a glass
darkly I see this strong woman
who faced down
Stalin for the sake of the human.
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