by TerryWalstrom 3 Replies latest jw friends

  • TerryWalstrom


    She danced in stolen dresses
    to a Chopin polonaise
    In moonlight bright pentameters
    suggesting Shakespeare's plays

    Her bare feet on cold concrete
    told her story to the crowd
    hustling brusquely past her
    as grand music played aloud

    She dreamed the dreams of millions
    to be known and rich and fair
    Yet slowly it was fading
    and now
    no longer cared.

    The wind swept in at midnight
    her borrowed time ran slow
    The lady in the stolen dress
    stopped moving to and fro

    Chopin turned to silence
    Shakespeare's sonnets froze
    the dancer in the stolen dress
    Slumped down and rubbed her toes

    Dimes and nickles in her hand
    She strikes her final pose
    Bows to no one - disappears
    to where all lost things go

    (A Poem by Terry Walstrom)
    ballet, dance, and ballerina image

  • ZindagiNaMilegiDobaara

    Like the poem, well written. I write poems and short stories too. Have even published in different mags and recited on radio shows .This was when I was short of money.

    Keep it up.

  • zeb

    ...and what a stunning beautiful fine art photo.

    thank-you so much.

  • TerryWalstrom

    I don't really try to sit down an write a poem. In fact, when I have TRIED I just give up blankly. What happens is sort of peculiar.
    I'll hear somebody say something--a phrase, perhaps. Or, I'll be reading something and an odd mix of words rubs together and ignites a starter fire inside of me.

    I'm going to say it is what passes for "inspiration."
    In this particular case, I was watching a documentary about somebody--I can't recall who--and the phrase "they danced in stolen dresses" caught my ear and burned.
    A smolder led to me jumping up and writing the phrase down.
    I had no ideas. At all. I began playing chess online with that phrase nagging away.

    I had to stop and open my laptop and create a document with that phrase as a mock-up title--a placeholder.

    The damned thing wanted to be written. It wouldn't let me do anything but get out of its way.
    After I thought it was done--I let go of it and went back to playing chess.
    Later, I read it again. A few places seemed out of sorts.
    Replacements and switcheroos. Editing.
    "Feeling feeling..."
    After about ten bits of tidying up I let go of it.
    The last thing to change was the title.
    I realized the poem was not about dancing in a stolen dress. It was about the compulsion artists have they must surrender unto. Usually, it leads nowhere.
    Nowhere = Oblivion.

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