We ordered a blue-bubble moon sliced thin on rye then spent the day in the park beneath Easter egg clouds. You took my handwing in yours and said: “Watercolor twirl.” I felt like a good songwalk. That night we did a bouncespring together and I showed you one of my hearts; (I have two) one heart lets love in, and the other lets love out. You said: “Like cool,” which made my eyes wet with turtlejoy. Star bright, star light, wish we may, wish we might, ever linger in the night. Sleep was tasty as cinnamon pie. When the sun rose we were kissed awake by the only star left in the sky. Like cool.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Goldfinches
Goldfinches alight
on flower heads to eat seeds
and pluck green petals.
on flower heads to eat seeds
and pluck green petals.
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Monday, July 23, 2012
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Turkey Vultures
8 turkey vultures
circle the golf course, rising
high in the blue sky.
circle the golf course, rising
high in the blue sky.
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Saturday, July 14, 2012
Friday, July 13, 2012
Grand parenting
There is nothing
more loveable that a grandchild
returning to its parents.
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Thursday, July 12, 2012
Wheels of Justice
The wheels of justice
turn faster and hit fewer
bumps in the road
when the road
is made from gold.
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Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Tortoises and Hare
Man, woman, and boy
walk the wood after rain -
tortoises and hare.
Silence, sunlight, glisten.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Independence Day
Soldiers fight
in far-off wars
so we the people
can sleep tonight
and dream tomorrow.
in far-off wars
so we the people
can sleep tonight
and dream tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Stradivarius
Stradivarius
made violins for mortals
who play music for the gods.
made violins for mortals
who play music for the gods.
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Saturday, June 30, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Critique of the Rembrandt Show at the MIA June 2012
Rembrandt says with paint
what Jung said in volumes;
the sitters keep quiet.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
The Last Dance
Last night, May 5, I attended a “dismantling” party at 1940 Hennepin Avenue in Minneapolis. A crowd of over 100 people, made up of modern dancers, choreographers, musicians, and dance supporters, joined together to celebrate Heidi Hauser Jasmin and her husband Paul Jasmin, who have operated the Nancy Hauser Dance Dance Company and School in this space for 26 years. The three-story building, which was being leased to several non-profit organizations, is currently in the process of being dismantled and repurposed. Rumors have it that the street level space, formerly occupied by Burch Pharmacy, will become a steak house. The intended purpose of the second and third levels of the building is not yet clear.
What is clear is that the ample studio space was a place for creative work by many artists for over a quarter of a century. Last night, the third floor was alive with dancers and musicians who collaborated on one final improvisation that lasted four hours. Heidi’s brothers, Michael and Tony Hauser, played guitar in the reception area while jazz band Aurora Club jammed in the main studio. Energizing the space were dance artists of all ages who glided barefoot across these worn wooden planks for the last time.
I dedicate the following poems to this glorious studio and to the people who inhabited it. From them I learned the language of dance.
Begin Like This
Performed at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco in 2000
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Not in tone-on-tone rooms
not within undersized budgets
not on four-color glossy paper
not around pinstripe suits
not under the table
not over coffee hot, martinis
dry or wringing wet.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
You will twist your tongue parch
your throat trying. So dare you
not speak about lifts and turns;
swings and grand plies’; about rotated
spirals; full-body vibrations;
half curves and glides; leaps and slides
Because you cannot dialogue about dance.
Instead we must be primal instinct, molecules
of e-motion, a flesh-and-blood symphony, body
instruments that bang and twang, staccato
and sustain. Allegro moderato, adagio largo,
bouree’ and presto, andante expressivo.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Jazz it up with harmonic scales, diminished
fifths, three chords, dis-chords, re-chords.
Breathe. Fast like a starling in mid-flight,
slow as a monk mediating on Monk. Breathe,
sassy and brassy as a strumpet or saxophone.
Like Duncan, like Wigman, like Hauser, like
Graham, Ailey and Tharp: one dance, one breath,
changing times, strident rhythms.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Find a space; ride a rhythm, start a phrase.
Begin like this: solo, duet, trio, quartet.
Count like this: four for nothing 4-3-2-1.
One and two and three and four PAUSE 5-6-7-8. Again.
One and two and three and four PAUSE 5-6-7-8.
Move your groove, slide your glide, extend your suspend,
bump your jump, swim your spin, burn your turn,
reverb your curve, rift your lift, libate your vibrate,
gyro your spiral, melee your plie’, swing your thing ‘cause...
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Sandra Bestland ©1996
The Soloist
Sestina for Dance
and cueing the audience to silence. Music
is scored as she marks the darkened space:
she is keen to solo across the wooden floor.
Heart and hand, life and limb, she is here to dance.
Her body was pigment and paintbrush, the floor
her canvas, Life her palette. Hers was a time
of suffrage and prohibition, war and peace. The space
she traveled was altered by body music,
shocking all. Isadora Duncan moved to rebel music
painting a self-portrait, a language without words. Dancer
singular, she freed herself to move in space,
untying the whalebone, unbinding her solar plexus. Stage
struck, she was fresh, she was flirty, she was timeless.
In her footsteps, the Soloist moves across the floor.
She undulates, capitulates, modulates in 4/4 time
to rhythms that merge and converge in a dance
birthed an eon ago. The animated stage
resonates with past performance in this space:
Floating and falling, leaping and lunging onstage,
dance is an allegory of body music.
Her dance
is the dialect of a soul that never marks time.
is built from Grace, a place where she dances
energized e-motion. She uses the floor
to defy gravity, to buoy her body in music.
This she does for art. This she does alone onstage.
She spoke modern dance. She soloed center stage.
What is clear is that the ample studio space was a place for creative work by many artists for over a quarter of a century. Last night, the third floor was alive with dancers and musicians who collaborated on one final improvisation that lasted four hours. Heidi’s brothers, Michael and Tony Hauser, played guitar in the reception area while jazz band Aurora Club jammed in the main studio. Energizing the space were dance artists of all ages who glided barefoot across these worn wooden planks for the last time.
I dedicate the following poems to this glorious studio and to the people who inhabited it. From them I learned the language of dance.
Begin Like This
Performed at the Palace of the Legion of Honor in San Francisco in 2000
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Not in tone-on-tone rooms
not within undersized budgets
not on four-color glossy paper
not around pinstripe suits
not under the table
not over coffee hot, martinis
dry or wringing wet.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
You will twist your tongue parch
your throat trying. So dare you
not speak about lifts and turns;
swings and grand plies’; about rotated
spirals; full-body vibrations;
half curves and glides; leaps and slides
Because you cannot dialogue about dance.
Instead we must be primal instinct, molecules
of e-motion, a flesh-and-blood symphony, body
instruments that bang and twang, staccato
and sustain. Allegro moderato, adagio largo,
bouree’ and presto, andante expressivo.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Jazz it up with harmonic scales, diminished
fifths, three chords, dis-chords, re-chords.
Breathe. Fast like a starling in mid-flight,
slow as a monk mediating on Monk. Breathe,
sassy and brassy as a strumpet or saxophone.
Like Duncan, like Wigman, like Hauser, like
Graham, Ailey and Tharp: one dance, one breath,
changing times, strident rhythms.
You cannot dialogue about dance.
Find a space; ride a rhythm, start a phrase.
Begin like this: solo, duet, trio, quartet.
Count like this: four for nothing 4-3-2-1.
One and two and three and four PAUSE 5-6-7-8. Again.
One and two and three and four PAUSE 5-6-7-8.
Move your groove, slide your glide, extend your suspend,
bump your jump, swim your spin, burn your turn,
reverb your curve, rift your lift, libate your vibrate,
gyro your spiral, melee your plie’, swing your thing ‘cause...
You cannot dialogue about dance.
The Soloist
Sestina for Dance
She stretches her lithe muscles backstage.
The lights dim, signaling show timeand cueing the audience to silence. Music
is scored as she marks the darkened space:
she is keen to solo across the wooden floor.
Heart and hand, life and limb, she is here to dance.
Isadora cast off corset and button-top shoes for Dance.
She unfettered herself, tress and soul, for the stage.Her body was pigment and paintbrush, the floor
her canvas, Life her palette. Hers was a time
of suffrage and prohibition, war and peace. The space
she traveled was altered by body music,
shocking all. Isadora Duncan moved to rebel music
painting a self-portrait, a language without words. Dancer
singular, she freed herself to move in space,
untying the whalebone, unbinding her solar plexus. Stage
struck, she was fresh, she was flirty, she was timeless.
In her footsteps, the Soloist moves across the floor.
Proscenium lights up and scrim lowered to the floor,
the Soloist suspends, spins, and shakes to the music.She undulates, capitulates, modulates in 4/4 time
to rhythms that merge and converge in a dance
birthed an eon ago. The animated stage
resonates with past performance in this space:
many have sweat and wept in this space,
have strewn sinew and soul across the floor.Floating and falling, leaping and lunging onstage,
dance is an allegory of body music.
Her dance
is the dialect of a soul that never marks time.
No smooth waltzer, she solos funk time,
with no partner, subject, object or verb. Her spaceis built from Grace, a place where she dances
energized e-motion. She uses the floor
to defy gravity, to buoy her body in music.
This she does for art. This she does alone onstage.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who used the floor
to move mystic through space, to groove to body music.She spoke modern dance. She soloed center stage.
Sandra Bestland © 2007
Technorati Tags: NHDC,Nancy Hauser Dance Studio,dance,1940 Hennepin Ave,Heidi Hauser Jasmin,Paul Jasmin
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