Tag Archive: Performing Arts

chagall backdrop

I’ve heard field recordings of sung-gospel
under winter stars; unable to shake
the marvel of that sound, I’m alive again
in frosted air, I revel in icy tears.

© Chagall 2014


Sands are cooler this time of day,
evening shore’s spongy underfoot,
refreshes the soles on up.

My towel skirts me,
hula at the waist, a tuck-knot,
long, cool cotton sways,
massages me, naked thighs.

I buy a coco-rum-nut at the hut,
torches burn, leave a larger than usual tip,
fly chica behind the bar
rewards me with a double-floater-shot in return.

Salt air leaves me heady, nostalgic,
for some primal scene,
saline roots, when hot springs sprang,
before speech found its way to our tongues.

Duet up the beach plays Jobim,
he, nylon acoustic
she, silky throat and lovely neck.

Samba for lovers,
smell of herb
from under umbrellas.

The rum is good,
arouses my caramel,
makes me thicker,
I glide, boogie board on bare feet.

After the verse, at the coro,
I step toe to heel, to toe to heel,
dancing like no one’s watching,
’cause no one is.

My ears pop suddenly,
the rush of knee-high waves
swooshes crisp, tens of decibels louder,
foam about me touches my towel hem.

I am doubly alive, in overdrive,
oxygen never smelled so good,
clean, sweet, perfect pleasure,
just breathing in, keep breathing in . . .

Back at the hut, I double-up rum-nuts,
bum a cigarette from the fly chica,
who lights me up and smiles.

I do a paso dobla,
in a rum numb,
up and down the beach,
dancing, someone’s watching.
Queres dançar comigo?

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

An Honest Magician

With my finger aside my nose and a quick nod,
aside the chimney I remain,
no ascent.

I flail my fingers,
like octopi tentacles,
Svengali-like, to mesmerize,
but nothing changes, all remains.

I tap my wand three times,
fan my cape over the magic box,
but nothing disappears,
nor appears, for that matter.

I reach up my sleeve,
and draw no ace,
so I dare not attempt
to saw you in half!

I get tongue-tied
with sleight of hand,
I lose track of all those fingers.

I can, however,
honestly, truly,
levitate, for real,
on cue.

I cherish this ability,
allows me to escape,
whenever I need to.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Sleep on it?

The dancers’ marks are spotted,
glow in the dark,
exes on stage,
blue like stars burn hot.

She’s in the back row left,
a second in the recital,
but she’s perfect in her execution,
in expressing the step,
heart, line, and sinker.

Sexy beyond her age.
It’s obvious she’s thought a lot about this dance.
Voguing and stepping, in her own world, a private reverie,
her face caught in stage light, fine boned and captive,
for the moment, timeless.

She bangs the rhythm like I do in my seat,
catching the upbeat and-a two
with a shoulder shrug,
more subtle than hips.

I can convey as much with a nod,
and hold – three – four.

Kiss you on the downbeat, and twirl away in stealth,
leaving you guessing, what the f…
before the bridge.

I’ll go it solo if you are not along for the ride.
Your’re either in on it or out.
At this point in time, I need someone wholly committed.

Someone willing to break from the pack,
do a funky two-step unlike any previously seen,
without regret or self-consciousness,
and revel in the devil-may-care what the hell
any y’all think –
who gives a flying rat’s ass –
as long as we got we, it’s all
oh so absolutely good,
can’t nada be wrong.

Go loco with me baby.
Yell into the abyss with me.
Play pinball, bounce among stars, tilt at worlds,
at windmills, my Dulcinea.

Hold me, love me,
long into the night,
beyond the time when most would think sufficient.

I need long nurturing.
I need to be convinced, not mildly placated.
I need the long haul, the real deal,
the essential, the life dance,
the primal, Eden on the lips,
embraces that never stop, gardens in full bloom, all the time,
marking celestial passing.

I despise aftermath.
I hate interlude.
I just want constant flow, perpetual give and take,
riffing on the now,
the wonder of what’s here, and we in it.

Be me being you be me.
I want to wrap myself in the musk of you,
disappear into oblivion,
like a child prone on the back seat,
at night en route to home from the carnival,
windows rolled turn, to allow night air,
to circulate, while streelamps dance
in the reflection of rear window glass,
and aged melodies play out in AM,
way past midnight, way past my bedtime.

Hold me baby. Be my blanket buddy.
Heard there’s a storm brewing; cuddle with me under cotton sheets
alongside open windows,
while the storm howls,
and the rain blows in.

Young dancer, stay young.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Return to Battenkill

Morning, atop a large rock,
a stone lily pad
in the middle of the stream,
a team-span wide.

Cold waters lap at the edges,
while one can ride dry,
at the high and round rump.

I’m there in perfectly old,
tattered blue-wool pullover,
weighted right against
the vigor of this new day.

How wonderful to have
so much morning remaining
to while away.

Dense clusters of small gnatty flyers
dance in ancient patterns,
in the vee-rays of early sun,
radiant light, pervasive heat,
waves in mirage, they flutter there,
bursting from vernal pools.

Rainbows used to dance here,
leave small wakes, glide on eddies,
do backstrokes, with no one watching.

Masterful puppeteer of lightweight test,
set dry flies still,
perfectly still.

With but the slightest
tremor, concentric break of the surface,
from the rainbow’s vantage.

Just enough to stir curiosity,
a sniff, a poke,
enough to spring the snap.

Nothing sadder than a rainbow in mid-air,
regretting prior impulse.

The change is sudden, inevitable,

Snow on Battenkill
falls in crunches,
bunches in feet to yards
high, the wisteria that bough low to the banks,
shaggy, warm under all the cold,
lilac tongues out panting,
with winter body heat,
home to dead butterfly larvae;

dome holds the sound in,
the sound out;
you can walk anywhere,
the terrain is level,
white and wet.

Though not witnessed by anyone or anything,
I left footprints in November,
in the carry along the north rise,
that held their shape and depth,
through March.

I look forward to final frost,
to clear and distinct birthing,
of all that is,
there ever was.

The future is merely supposition.
Isn’t it? The ice, the same as the dew.

I would rather choke
on the freezing waters
filled with silt from the moving,
running bottom,
than trapped in the upper layers,
locked frozen in time.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Please see here for the original Battenkill

%d bloggers like this: