Summary

The text poetically explores the metaphorical relationship between a dancer, a rose, and the experience of art, likening the dancer's performance to the hypnotic allure and danger of a rose.

Abstract

The passage delves into the essence of poetry as a catalyst for experience, symbolized by a rose that captivates with its intricate beauty and central core. It describes a girl dancing with a rose, her movements reflecting the intensity and precision of her art, akin to a rose's thorns. The dancer's lack of conventional prettiness is juxtaposed with her inherent danger, much like a poison-sheathed thorn. Her concentrated expression and the shadows cast by the tables she dances between hint at the complex thoughts she grapples with. The guitarist accompanying her acknowledges her perilous nature, reinforcing the theme of art's ability to evoke profound and potentially hazardous experiences.

Opinions

Poetry is likened to fertilizer, suggesting it is foundational and nurturing for the growth of experience.
The rose is used as a multifaceted symbol for worldly experience, beauty, and danger.
The dancer's performance is a visual representation of the struggle and tension inherent in the creation of art.
The text conveys an appreciation for the raw, unconventional beauty that can be found in the intensity and danger of art.
The guitarist's perspective adds a layer of acknowledgment and perhaps admiration for the dancer's artistry and its impact.

AESTHETIC THEORY

Poetry is the fertilizer

from which the rose of experience grows

O twisted red rose of worldly experience

that like a Mandala hypnotizes

with the central pistil of its being

round & round the pretty girl

twirls a rose between her fingers

the way a dancer twirls heedlessly

between the peeling plaster column

& her expert guitarist

smiling from the excruciating tension of her art;

one rose clenched between bright jaws.

She is not pretty, the way a rose

might be

but she is dangerous, in the way

of a thorn

poison-sheathed.

The oval of her sweaty face

pale pink in folded concentration

is like a baby’s budded in

upon itself with rancor;

who knows what worms

her mind gnaws on

& on, as her shoeless feet

stamp petulantly within

two tables’ shadows.

Her toes, like flattened

rough & reddish petals

circle among the tracery

of past steps, about

& about rocked forward

she dances, heels raised,

hands crossed between

breasts are twirling a rose,

& the guitarist declares she is dangerous

the way a thorn is.