For the Belly Dancers

This poem has revolutionized the way I view bellydance. I share it with you, offering all of the appropriate acknowledgements. I found it on Donna Mejia's website. It was written for her by a student. If you are a dancer, and especially if you are not (yet!) I urge you to savor this slowly. Take it in and digest it. Let it live in your skin.

For the Bellydancers

This dance comes from sword and sun-cracked land.
In her journey, she discovered oceans, thunderstorms, mountains of green.

She comes to you, shoes filled with motherland sand
so her feet will feel at home wherever they walk.

She appears loose in her skin. Too many women have asked to try it on
and tossed it back when they found it too big for their cameras.

Let your body be a place she can rest joyfully,
a peaceful ground of curves like the dunes she’s homesick for.

But from the back of the studio, I can see you avoiding your eyes in the mirror
the way my daughter does when she knows she’s about to be scolded.

I say nothing.

A dancer knows there is no greater punishment than her own shame.
Your body wants to please you, and you can only point to where it fails.

You demand the same from me:
break dance into a thousand scattered pieces for us to examine and collect!
See, teacher! Look, I got this piece, and this piece and –

No.

Our bodies hold language clenched like an immigrant child’s native tongue.
Your muscles lie silent. Start talking!

This is an immersion class. You will stumble.
Your spine will not take orders easily.

You and your body are speaking different languages, and I am not your translator.
I can only show you what can happen when you listen.

First, you will uncover beats:
your hips will twitch when they hear thunder,

your feet will fall into step with raindrops,
and your sapling arms will move with small breezes.

Dance is the art of making peace. A moving body only becomes a dance
when your blood-rivers refuse to carry

any more ships armed with self-hatred and harsh thoughts.
A body cannot roll without breasts, ribs, belly, hips and fingertips.

This dance was not born from your (white) body, but treat her like an honored guest.
Give her entrance to the place you’re afraid to touch;

she will not hurt you.
Let her play with you.

Tell her she looks good on you.
Tell her out loud.

She will wear each drop of sweat like a jewel in her crown, so work until you both shine.
Speak to your reflection as though you’re courting a queen

and if you’re kind enough,
she’ll ask you to dance.

Dane Kuttler, 2008
Writer, Wandering Minstrel and
General Mischief-Maker

Home Is Burning

they dont really get on

well together
cant talk without a
fight
she doesnt hear him
and he wont hear her

so they raise their
voices to hear
themselves over the
other
then presume the

other is yelling

then the defense
kicks in
and their voices just
spiral upward
and drift around
them
like bits of hot ash
burning where they fall

they dont seem
to get on so well
together
and their skins
are covered
in many small burns
in various stages
of healing