Musings on the Veiled Dancer

A musing on the bronze sculpture, 'Veiled Dancer', greek or roman, I don't recall which.

My conception of dance

had always been tutus, 

stages, Tchaikovsky.

Stick thin legs emerging from wooden toed points.

Grace in slender limbs and violins

tightly wound hair, almost strangling the scalp. 

the strain for perfection

draining, exhausting.

But here...here was true dance.

For her, there were no layers of tulle

but yards of fine linen

to cover human imperfection.

No pink slippers,

only bare feet on cold stone

No antique theatre, no stagelights

just the hall of a villa

and the pungent smell of incense.  

No thin limbs caressed by lace

but a buxom figure, real and solid

Swaying in the light of lamps 

her shadow cast upon the faces

of her adoring public. 

Reviews

[The Jay]

Wonderfully written. Even though I'm not a big admirer of dancing, this poem really shows the essence of it. Shrewdly done.

P.S. Tchaikovsky is quite amazing.