Summer and Winter

 
Summer and Winter

The women of the winter’s lands and the women of the summer’s
Had gathered once to sing and dance to strings and flutes and drummers.
And one remarked how nice it was that winter had departed,
To which another then replied, she hated more the summers.
And others joined, as arguments on seasons’ merits started.

But one of them, who’d lived in both the regions that are heated
And those more often frozen, said, “The summers there are feted,
Where winter’s cold is bitter and the winter’s stay is long.
But summers there are hated, where, by June, we've been defeated,
So the rains, that end the summer’s heat, we greet with dance and song.”

Another, who had also known the polar and the tropic,
Arose and spoke with passion then upon this very topic.
“In places where the cloudy days are greeted with relief,
There winter is a season mild.  But where we all are phobic
Of winters that are long and harsh, there summers salve our grief.
 
“The arcing blue, the grays and whites of clouds whose edges glow,
The light upon the leaves that pointillism tried to show,
The shades of green, the sun and shade, the flowers in the breeze—
A summer, in a temperate zone, is all of these and more—
A passing dream of languor, lulling wearied souls to ease.

“The pores of skin are opened that in seasons past were closed.
The heat’s a suitor’s question.  The perspiration flows,
For that’s the body’s answer, as vessels tensed dilate.
“The summer is a cleansing.” a poet once proposed.
“It’s even more a coupling.” say the ones insatiate.
 
“As the rains are to the summer, in the heated tropic lands,
So the spring and then the summer are, to her, who understands
The moods of all the seasons where the winter’s reign is long.
The summer’s then her lover, and a lover makes demands,
As is known to those who revel when the rains are lashing strong.
 
“When fields are parched and dusty and the sun’s a blinding flame,
When all the land is thirsty and the jackal’s limping lame,
Then there, on the horizon, the wall of dark appears.
There’s thunder and there’s lightning, and the girls who’ve lost their shame
Are dancing, for it’s raining, as the gods throw down their spears.

“More gently comes the vernal, like a lover’s soft caress,
To the land that bore the winter’s yoke and groaned in its distress.
And summer, to that region, comes and stays for just a while,
And yet receives a welcome that is heartfelt, nonetheless,
For even when he’s left us—from his kisses, still, we smile.”

And when she finished speaking, the others laughed out loud.
For they had seen, inverted, what seasons were about.
“It’s time,” said one, “for dancing!”  And so began their dance.
And “Is it for the summer,” one could ask that swaying crowd,
“Or is it for the winter?” And the answer would be, “Dance!”
 
2015 July 22nd, Wed., 8:47 pm
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, New York 
         

The Dancer (and the Reed)

The Dancer
(and the Reed)

On the sands, beside the ocean,
I did the dancer meet,
As the waves were drum-rolls sounding
And the wind was fluting sweet.

She danced of the creation,
Of the genesis, of sex –
She was god and man and woman,
She was nature – nothing less.

From the sweat, her face was shining,
Though the breeze was blowing cool,
With the surf behind her roaring
As she danced before this fool.

I was spellbound by her dancing –
That was sensual and divine.
I stood and watched her postures
And the play of gestures fine.

With her feet, she stomped a rhythm –
Primordial, heartbeat, lust –
And her torso swayed to lilting –
That of sky that calls to dust.

She was thunder, she was lightning,
She was wind, torrential rain,
She was each of all the seasons,
She was pleasure, she was pain.

She was joy and she was sorrow,
She was laughter, she was grief.
And my heart, by her, was stolen –
By this dancer, like a thief.

So the gods may ask allegiance
That the strongest can’t resist;
So the musk may rouse the senses
And on mating, then insist…

But the dance then rose in tempo,
As coitus too may do,
And it reached, in time, a climax,
With my heart convulsing too.

And then, as she was flowing
And was swaying, I was freed
And I floated, by that seaside,
Like a wave-tossed broken reed.

******

I think I fell unconscious
And I lay there for a time.
When I woke, there was no dancer –
So I've danced her back in rhyme.

But if you find her dancing –
By an ocean, on a beach,
Beware – for those who watch her
Will be captured by her, each…

Let my rhymes be then sufficient
For the ones, who’re weak of heart –
Though they be a pale reflection
Of the wonder of her art.

Her face was flushed – her beauty
Was like the morning mist,
Her lips were slightly parted –
Her face, by moisture kissed.

Her hips were circling slowly,
Her arms were waving high,
Her hands were weaving stories,
And her eyes were darting sly.

Was she air or was she ether?
For she leaped in wondrous arcs
And she landed like a feather,
Yet the sand flew out like sparks.

She was sparkling, like a fountain,
She was flowing, like a stream.
Was she a woman – or a goddess?
Was she real – or a dream?

I do not know the answers,
But that dancer, I can see –
For I’d seen, myself, her dancing,
By the breakers, by the sea…
 
There are things we can imagine.
There are others, that we can't –
That are spoken of in whispers –
Or in hymns the faithful chant.

I have witnessed such a wonder –
As I've seen, myself, my hand.
But whence and how and wherefore,
I do not understand.

2015 January 18th, Sun.
Brooklyn, New York
  
Please see:  The Dances of the Golden Hall, by Ashoke Chatterjee (text) and Sunil Janah (photographs), ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations), New Delhi, 1979. 

This book, designed by Zehra Tyabji and printed at the National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad, has a short Introduction by Indira Gandhi and a Foreword by the violinist Yehudi Menuhin.
   

The Dancers

         
The Dancers
      
I was walking home this evening, with the sky of dusk aglow,
And the shadows growing darker as I walked the streets below.
And walking in those shadows, a brightness caught my eye –
The glass upon the windows, reflecting lighted sky.

They shone like shields of soldiers, in the days when bronze was best,
And they stood in radiant order, reflecting to the west.
But looking at them burning, I saw there, in between
The lighted sky and darkness, a row of trees, serene.

They’d lost all trace of foliage, and stood there, naked, bare,
But clearly clad in beauty, like dancers nude and fair.
In silhouette I saw them, against the pastel glow,
With branches spreading skyward, as each was dancing slow.

And as I neared a dancer, I saw, against the sky,
As if in gay abandon, her tresses shaken high –
A tracery, a filigree, a net of twigs so fine,
That waited for the springtime, in silent arcs divine.

I paused and looked in wonder, and saw, on every twig,
The buds that were so tiny – and yet, with promise, big.
How patient were these dancers that moved with seasons slow…
How graceful were those arches, against the twilight glow…

I looked – and then I started to trundle, once again,
My burden  that was heavy – but somehow lightened then.
And when I reached my burrow, I let the papers lie,
And wrote instead these verses – I know not surely why.

2014 March 18th, Tue.
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
 

Lion Dance

Lion Dance
  
I hear the distant pulsing of the drums.
And as I near, the sound grows louder.  Soon,
I find that I, along with prancing kids
Who strain at mothers’ hands and skid on ice,
Have synchronized my steps.  I glide along –
And even climbing ice-hills at the curbs
Is effortless.  It seems we gain in strength,
When martials make us dance – or march to war.

The young man strikes the drum with rhythmic force.
The leather, taut, responds to every blow.
In music, there is often scent of sex,
Which we, as children, did not care to know.
But being male, and so of warrior-gene,
The pipes and drums beguiled me as a boy,
When every year, upon a certain day,
I heard the fascists marching up the street...

I pass the drummer and the dancer and
I enter in the Chinese restaurant.
And soon enough, they’re there. The drummer stays
And beats his drum outside, upon the street.
The lion enters, dancing, with his back
And tail supported by his trailing friend.
No room for two to be the lion’s legs –
The place is busy, with the tables filled.

They stay awhile beside me, near the door.
The tail instructs the lion, who’s half-blind,
To walk towards the gods, in an alcove red,
With plastic lights in lieu of votive lamps.
 And there, the lion bows to the bearded ones
And towards the goddess of compassion too.
And when the bows are done, he walks the floor
And then returns, to bow to gods again.

I glimpse his face, with glasses, grimacing
From all his effort, walking weighted, bowed.
His mouth is open wide, as if in pain,
And though it’s cold, I know his sweat runs wet.
The Han enjoy their new-year's lion-dance
And dance-of-dragon too.  In China, they’ve
A fortnight off – but in Hong Kong, three days…
And here, they work – or take a day sans pay.

And when I ask, I’m told this dance – and all
The bows the lion-boy did, while bending deep,
Towards the gods and goddess – these will bring
The owners fortune, luck, prosperity…
And so it is, that every year, we hear
The drums that rouse the streets – and see
The lion and the dragon bow and dance,
As Montreal or Rome becomes Canton.
  
2014 February 9th, Sun.,
Bensonhurst, Brooklyn