What's Wrong with the Music?

Too fast a waltz? Switch to Viennese.
Too slow instead? A cross-step suits it well.
And if it isn’t either one of these,
a rotary, or box-step should be swell.
Do slow and heavy backbeats make you blue?
Try nightclub two-step there, instead of swing.
You’ll find there’s always something you can do
to anything the DJ cares to bring.
So take the music as your guide—you’ll find
there’s nothing wrong with anything you hear,
and with Life’s melody become entwined,
trusting that He who sings it holds you dear.

The Fiddle’s Infiltration

for Merida

When the mood takes her, my fiddle
will put on a violin’s ballgown,
and spend an hour coaxing her curls
into a semblance of propriety,
before excavating my tuxedo
from the closet and thrusting it towards me
with a meaningful look.

The first flyaway ringlet,
like a loose bow hair,
had already made its break
as she turned away from the mirror.
Stray specks of garden dirt and rosin
adorn her fingernails, and her bare toes
peek out beneath her petticoats.

Each partner she passes in the cotillion
is left slightly disoriented
for no reason they can name,
but not unpleasantly so,
and when the dance returns her to my side,
I catch a wink behind her mischievous decorum,
and a subtle poke in the ribs.

She dances the sarabande
like an Argentine tango,
the quadrille like a square dance,
and when we polka her laugh
trails behind us in a wake
of ruffled hoop skirts and coattails,
and arched eyebrows.

But well before the evening’s end
she blows a kiss to the orchestra
and we twirl out the door,
leaving shocked whispers behind us
as we run into the night
to find a pub, a ceilidh,
and some fast Irish reels.

After the Dance

It’s the end of the evening, a lingering haze of sweat and laughter,
changing shoes and packing up instruments in a contented ache of feet and fingers,
and one of the dancers still dizzy says to me, “I love it when you stop playing!”
Now, I knew what he meant, and took the compliment—
any good piano player knows when to drop out and let the fiddles fly,
shucking off the bass notes that held them and the dancers to the ground,
and then the fiddles turn and drop an octave and the mandolin pops,
sprinkling sparklers over the packed floor flashing back in their eyes,
so that when the whole band finally crashes back in all that soaring kindling ignites
and the hall explodes into another breathless, fearless hour of dancing.
And I watch this fellow twirl off with his partner,
back to a life that was, for a few hours, suspended,
raised up into a space of fiery flight, spun about and transformed,
ready to crash back, breathless, fearless, and turn the world on its toes.

Ballet Dancer, Age 10

her eyes
reflect older
memories than her years
more confident grace than her limbs
yet know

her soul
poised expectant
waits to balance spirit
and form again as it has done
before

The Danube Blues

Well, I had me a day make me hang my head an’ cry.
Oh yeah, I had me one o’ them days, ain’t nuthin’ you can do but cry,
Gonna get myself a whiskey, drink till I’m bone dry.

So I head out to the bar, but somethin’ just ain’t right,
I said I get me on into that bar, but I know there’s somethin’ just ain’t right,
Ain’t no hard luck, stone broke, blind man singer in sight.

They got this big brass band there, playin’ up a pile o’ Strauss,
There’s this big ol’ honkin’ band there, playin’ oh you know it’s gotta be Strauss,
Johann, Josef, and Johann Junior in da house.

Well you ain’t gonna get me out there on that floor,
I said you ain’t never gonna get me out there on that dancin’ floor,
Ever since my woman left me, I ain’t gonna dance no more.

Oh I never saw what hit me, but now I’m spinnin’ round and round,
I said the very next thing I know this here waltz has got me dancin’ round,
And it’s got my bad mood just a-packin’ right outta town.

Well now, I can’t frown when I put on my dancin’ shoes,
Oh no, I just can’t frown at all when I put on them dancin’ shoes,
Well don’t blame me none—I got the waltzin’ Danube Blues,
Yessir, I got them everlovin’ fancy-turnin’ giddy-waltzin’
           Danu-u-u-u-u-u-ube… Blues.

Volunteered: The True Story of My First Attempt at Rapper Sword Dancing

I went out with a mandolin to watch my sister dance,
Perhaps to play, for she’d said they on tunes were often short.
But as it happened, that one night, entirely by chance,
Attendance problems threatened them their practice for to thwart.

Performing rapper sword dances is something I’ve not done,
But a single glance around the room made clear they lacked but one.
So into service I was pressed, and sword into my hand,
And found myself a member of that merry little band.

I always like to help, and so I went in with a grin,
Little knowing how soon I would take it on the chin,
For rehearsing all these figures was a tricky task wherein
All the custom terminology just set my head a-spin!

We start in “guard” and that’s not hard—I just wait at the back—
And then the “curly” part is surely started without stress:
I followed Tee and she led me to loop around the track,
But then it all began to fall into a silly mess.

The ups and downs and turn-arounds were called the “ins-and-outs,”
But if you know the way to turn you’ll not get knocked about.
Then “plow through” to “over your neighbor” (“-’s sword” I think they mean),
And the “diddle-diddle-dees” are making quite the flashy scene.

When “dummers” came they swore that it did not refer to me,
But as I said, “just shove me on to where I need to be.”
“Maryann’s” identity they never did reveal,
But apparently she frolics with a “jump-rope” made of steel.

The “princess” part was someone else, and had to do with “lines,”
The “fiddler” bit was “fast and loose” and could have used some signs.
By “popcorn” I had lost it, and the “basket” that we “spin,”
I wished was something they would use to carry me home in.

’Twas but one dance! It could have been an even weirder trip,
With “twisted fixies,” “double guards,” and “prince of Wales” flips,
Or “puking fiddlers,” “open rings,” or “breastplates” and “odd slides,”
But ’twas enough for my poor feet and my poor brain besides.

All the figures ended with a “nut” for all to see,
But the nuttiest of all was the nut they made of me!

The End

First impressions are important, just a glance
may reveal of what character is your heart,
or how confident your stride — and now the dance
will start.

The middle portion, either, is not to be neglected,
as attention can sometimes be hard to hold.
Your partner should feel her steps directed.
Be bold,

but not overly so. Comfort is the key
that lets the world fall away into the night,
until you both, and the music, may as well be
in flight.

Still, all of this is minor, for no matter
if three minutes of your life are lost
to apologetic smiles, feet that get scattered
and crossed,

if at the end it all comes right.
Those final moments are the ones that reign,
that, if perfected, in memory might
remain.

For you’ll find the sweetness you’re intending
not in flashy tricks or blatant flair,
but on your mutual, intimate attending
to closing steps uttered like a prayer
to the perfect inevitability of an ending,
just

there.

The Waltzer's Pantoum

If you haven’t yet waltzed, you can’t know how it is.
Stepping in time, sure, that’s a start.
It seems so simple, just turning like this,
But the whole is more than the sum of its parts.

Stepping in time is a sure way to start,
Dodging her foot as you take to the floor.
But the whole is more than the sum of its parts,
And both of you find an increasing rapport.

Dodging another foot, crossing the floor,
More dancers surround you, all twirling like spheres,
And both of you find an increasing rapport
In threading a pathway through all of your peers.

More dancers everywhere blend into spheres,
The whirling lines blurring as sight slips aside.
In weaving a pattern with all of your peers,
You find space connects that had seemed to divide.

As blurring lines whirl and sight steps aside,
You find a new power that carries you on:
The space fills with music that cannot divide
But sweeps you all with it — you find that you’re drawn

By this powerful loving that carries you on,
Arcing through melody, space, and then time,
You’re swept up, and in the new poem that’s drawn,
Your bodies shape stanzas, the pivots all rhyme.

Arcing through melody, space, and then time,
Musicians and dancers transcending the hall,
We all come together in one joyful rhyme,
Not leading, not following, dancing with all.

The music, the dance, have transcended the hall,
It’s simple, yet infinite, turning like this,
You follow the Leader by dancing with all,
But now that you’ve waltzed... well, you know how it is.