Poetry, Dance, Womanhood

The Periphery of the Dance

A response to the Literary Impulse “When Poetry and Art Combine” prompt

The shiver which tugs at the cord of your soul when your feet find the beat of the drum — it fuels the fluidity now softening your limbs and severs all sense of inhibition.

You jingle and shimmy, hips moving in synch with the women of eons before, those who danced, not for men — no,

but rather for the sheerness of joy.

A kinship, a spark, a communing of step and breath. A deep knowing, a healing, a reeling of the world as you spin and then catch the horizon again with your gaze.

Your lungs burn. Your thighs ache. Your feet search for the thread of the dance.

You’ve lost it. You find it again. The movement never ends.

The surge of the synch, the moment you all move as one, it’s the reason you’re here, the waking dream, the confluence of practice and spontaneity.

Purity of movement, a moment of grace. If you concentrate too hard you might lose it.

It surges up, a euphoric bubble, a melding of spirit and mind, a sacred thread twining back through eons of time.

It’s primal and fierce and it pounds in your veins. You wipe the sweat from your lip and you try that step again.

And the drums pound. A frenzy. A thunder. An almost orgasmic moment.

And then it’s done.

And the world rushes in.

And your eyes’ focus returns to the world beyond the periphery

of the dance.

In years gone by, I used to have a small group of friends who gathered each week in my yoga room for a belly-dancing lesson. Our teacher, Wendy, had the uncanny ability to look as if she was moving in slow motion through a hazy world of pure fluid. A shift of hip. A tilt of hand. She made magic.

The rest of would line up behind her, watching the group in the mirror. The music would begin. And we would try our best to emulate her.

It didn’t really matter if we were any good or not. When we missed steps, she would pause and tell us to “take a sip” of our wine. And then we would begin again.

In years since, I’ve taken other classes, with other teachers. And, while the joy of the dance is always with me, nothing can compare to the sheer feminine joy of those evenings we all spent together in communion of womanhood.

Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).

You might also enjoy another poem about the dance:

Or this one, about the moon:

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Story and photos © Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.

Thank you to Tej for the glorious painting which inspired this poem. You might also enjoy some of the other poetry responses to Literary Impulse’s “When Painting and Words Combine” prompt:

Frank Larkin, Carolyn Hastings, Connie Song, Jenine Bsharah Baines, Monoreena Acharjee Majumdar, Dr. Fatima Imam and more.

As always, thank you to the Literary Impulse team for putting together these prompts: Somsubhra Banerjee and Priyanka Srivastava.