Swan Lake

ruby · September 2004

Listening to Swan Lake
a different musical menu for the morning
instead of my usual buttered toast I am feasting on
delicately poached duck eggs, swimming in a rich cream
sauce

I twirl and twirl
arms flaying all about
legs flying in the air
more like a demented Can Can dancer
than a graceful ballerina.
I wish and wonder how it would feel
to be a dancer
to command one's body
to the perfect rhythm of the music

But then I just feel joy
that I am sometimes able to witness
the beauty of a dancer
who's body speaks the language of music.

ruby · September 2004

I want to be a ballerina
I tell the doctor in my broken english
or did my father translate for me?
And the doctor smiles playfully
and informs me, that to be a ballerina I must become
lithe and really could do with a few extra inches.

My plump little greek body
fed on spanakopitas
brought daily by my father
for the little girl who could not stomach bland australian food
lies immobile week on end
waiting for the broken bones to mend.

And beside me is my friend
a pretty little dark italian girl
and I regale her with silly little greek poems all day
and she laughs, everytime
though I wonder how
she understands my funny rhymes about fat ladies
derailing trams, whilst wearing red underwear.
But she laughs
and that is more than enough for me.

And my father bounces a bonny little baby on his knee
a perfect little specimen of humanity
left behind by his mother
because he was born without the gift of hearing.
And we are all happy
and joyful
in that hospital where I first learnt the kindness of strangers.
A rich cacophony of separate languages
made one by the milk
of human kindness.

And I do think that kindly doctor was wrong
in his estimation of my future litheness
but I do wish I could thank him
for returning to me
the gift of running.