Hoop Dancer
(Based on the painting by Ted De Grazia)

A stream of light flows in circles around me.
Hoops and halos surround my body,
as I reach through each center with a dancing limb.
My pointed foot draws a blue circle
while my outstretched hand
paints a swirl of bright yellow.

I am the hoop dancer.
I carve a story into the night air,
as I move in rhythms,
that make my heart pump stronger
and my skin tremble with pure knowledge.

The lyrical notes fall all at once
from the dark, speckled sky.
They come crashing in waves,
and jingle at my beaded, fringed ankles.
Movement creates a limitless space between
my feet and the dry, crumbled earth beneath.
The hoops are as light as the air itself.
They raise me up and I am in flight.
Each circle is a galaxy –
each waving feather in my headdress
creates the stardust that lights up the world around me
so that my body is the bonfire –
aglow with a story.
It is the narrative of the hoop.

Cristina M. R. Norcross
August 2, 2006

Warning


When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

subtle degrees
of domination and servitude
are what you know as love

but love is different
it arrives complete
just there
like the moon in the window

like the sun
of neither east nor west
nor of anyplace

when that sun arrives
east and west arrive

desire only that
of which you have no hope
seek only that
of which you have no clue

love is the sea of not being
and there intellect drowns

this is not the Oxus River
or some little creek
this is the shoreless sea;
here swimming ends
always in drowning

a journey to the sea
is horses and fodder and contrivance
but at land's end
the footsteps vanish

you lift up your robe
so as not to wet the hem;
come! drown in this sea
a thousand times

the moon passes over
the ocean of nonbeing

droplets of spray tear loose
and fall back on cresting waves

a million galaxies
are a little scum
on that shoreless sea
-Rumi