I have been creating poetry for thirty-five years and my passion for it only grows larger in the fullness of time. Every morning I wake up eager to get to work. I come home from my morning walk by the sea which is my matins prayer, my walking meditation, my preparation for the making of poems.
I have been dancing just as long knowing it, like poetry, takes practice, practice, practice. Each involves the sculpting of lines—the poetic line verses the balletic one. For me, dance is the counter-balance to the writing cadence, a physical embodiment of poetry. Both set me in motion, gracefully so. Then there’s all that music. Music of the word, music the body dances to and the lyric that leaps into song. Thus my first two disciplines have been plaited into a third—the creating of poetry meant to be set to music. Three marriages, then, and me the happy, if aging bride.
I sang before I started writing, but it is ballet that truly fostered my love for classical music. It taught me how to take music into my body and turn it into a tool meant to express, like poetry, one of the highest forms of beauty. Body as tool, voice as tool. Often I think I should write my poems on blank sheets of music, graced by grace notes.
Whether I’m in my study, the ballet studio, the concert hall and yes, my garden too, I am in nirvana. I love the god of dirt as much as the god of poesy and the lyre. Hence the dancing lyric that sings as it blossoms. Anna Ahkmatova once wrote, “And the miraculous comes so close.” Isn’t that what art tries to do? Am I alone in believing that nirvana is here, as I read long ago, nine times out of ten? I wonder how others create their own nirvana, turn the little miracles into big ones till each an everyone of us is truly a miracle worker, a maker who makes the magic happen.