Dancing with Words

[readingredhead]

Bella Firenze

The stars on the cobblestones flicker in time
to the music that plays in the
nighttime air, and lulls
a whole city to wake with its mood and its tone,
all flying everywhere amongst
the dimmed lights of life; the stars
play counterpoint to the dark. The street
feels firm underfoot, and old, worn
with time and a thousand other maladies like
weather and pain and history and
life. With such things in them, it’s no wonder that
the very stones seem to speak, saying
Dance, dance! and humming in
quiet to the old and the new
and the now
alike. Come dance upon us, and feel
what all Florentine men and women know:
that the song of the street
is the most beautiful music
of all; that it resounds in the crevices of
the heart and sets them afire with life’s passion. (A passion
so strong that it should be shared,
must be shared,
oh please will you dance here with me?)
Tonight the street music plays for all lovers, whether
new or old, near or far, known or not -- and for those who love
life, learning, wisdom, even those
who simply purely love where
it is needed, the dance is universal,
speaking only the language of
the night -- but a night
of galaxies dancing, and stars
with their silver coats twirling like
the ladies at a ball most grand, a night
where absolutely everything might
happen. (Might even be true love
is found, might be you, night be
now.) What do you say? I say,
the night is fresh, the moon above like an ancient coin, and
the music swells within
the very streets. It’d be a shame to share
a night like this, and not at least attempt
to dance along with it.

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Hm...I wrote that last night when I was thinking about my trip to Florence last summer, and remembering how on our last night there, when we were walking back to the hotel after a late dinner out under the stars in the largest piazza, we walked past all of the street musicians playing and something about it made me want to dance.

I was thinking about it last night because not much makes me want to dance; I often joke that I'm too white to dance well, or manage to get out of it in other similar ways. But that night, under the Italian stars, something about the atmosphere inspired me so much that I can remember it even now, more than half a year later, as if I were there. That memory, the strength of it, compelled me to write this. Other than that, I don't know why I wrote it, or what it means, or where parts of it came from, but it's art, and pulling it apart sometimes messes with it, so I won't.

Comments

[actress4jesus.livejournal.com]

"I ask them to go inside the poems room and feel for the light,
Yet they only want to tie and bind the poem,
Beating it over and over and ask, "What do you mean?
What do you mean?" "

It doesn't matter what it means. It's beautiful.

[readingredhead.livejournal.com]

Ah, how I love you for understanding. Thanks.