Alastair Macaulay — The foot is at the root of poetry.
There is this most interesting NY Times essay, Notice the Feet in that Body of Work by their senior dance critic Alastair Macaulay.
I have written often in my blogs about feet and how I think that feet are the ugliest part of the human body. I had never thought that dancers’ feet would be the ugliest of all. I have had the privilege of being allowed to photograph the feet of Evelyn Hart and of Lauri Stallings. Their feet are not pretty like mine. I inherited my mother’s. She often told me I had swimmer’s feet even though I never swam with style.
In a trip to Florida for a travel magazine I was offered either a body massage or a pedicure at a luxury resort. I was much too embarrased to go for the former so I opted for the second. I found myself in a room-full of women with feet in buckets gossiping. They all stopped yakking when they saw my feet. It was then that they asked me how old I was!
Not too long ago I wrote a fake blog about Isadora Duncan’s feet.
I am coming around to finally appreciate the hidden beauty of some feet.
You’ll know Her — by Her Foot — Emily Dickinson
You’ll know Her — by Her Foot —
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers — where the Toes should be —
Would more affront the Sand —
Than this Quaint Creature’s Boot —
Adjusted by a Stern —
Without a Button — I could vouch —
Unto a Velvet Limb —
You’ll know Her — by Her Vest —
Tight fitting — Orange — Brown —
Inside a Jacket duller —
She wore when she was born —
Her Cap is small — and snug —
Constructed for the Winds —
She’d pass for Barehead — short way off —
But as She Closer stands —
So finer ’tis than Wool —
You cannot feel the Seam —
Nor is it Clasped unto of Band —
Nor held upon — of Brim —
You’ll know Her — by Her Voice —
At first — a doubtful Tone —
A sweet endeavor — but as March
To April — hurries on —
She squanders on your Ear
Such Arguments of Pearl —
You beg the Robin in your Brain
To keep the other — still —
There is no Frigate like a Book
I pay — in Satin CashWednesday, September 07, 2016
Emily Dickinson’s White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls
El vestido blanco — The White Dress
Water makes many beds
The viola da gamba
But sequence ravelled out of reach
A parasol is the umbrella’s daughter
Without the power to die
Lessons on the piny
Ample make this bed
How happy is the little stone
Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
I took my power in my hand
I find my feet have further goals
I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
Red Blaze
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone!
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red
Me-come! My dazzled face
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/03/i-left-them-in-ground-emily-dickinson.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/01/i-felt-my-life-with-both-my-hands.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/currer-bell-emily-dickinson-charlotte.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/and-zero-at-bone-with-dirks-of-melody.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/05/charm-invests-her-face.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/tell-truth-but-tell-it-slant.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/theres-certain-slant-of-light.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/then-mashes-it-to-death.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/adjusted-to-tomb.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/i-could-not-see-to-see.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/blonde-assasin-passes-on.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/12/dirk-commemorate-itself.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/12/lawful-as-equilibrium.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/12/there-is-no-frigate-like-book.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/12/light-is-sufficient-to-itself.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2012/11/thanatos-two-tiny-rhododendrons.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2012/12/you-almost-bathed-your-tongue.html
Link to: Alastair Macaulay — The foot is at the root of poetry.