(for Leela Samson) <br /> <br />Spaces in the electric air divide themselves <br /> in circular rhythms, as the slender <br />grace of your arms and bell-tied ankles <br /> describe a geometric topography, real, cosmic, <br /> one that once reverberated continually in <br />a prescribed courtyard of an ancient temple <br /> <br />in South India. As your eyelids flit and flirt, and <br /> match the subtle abhinaya in a flutter <br />of eye-lashes, the pupils create an <br /> unusual focus, sight only ciliary muscles <br /> blessed and cloaked in celestial kaajal <br />could possibly enact. <br /> <br />The raw brightness of kanjeevaram silk, of <br /> your breath, and the nobility of antique silver <br />adorns you and your dance, reminding us of <br /> the treasure chest that is only <br /> half-exposed, disclosed just enough, barely — <br />for art in its purest form never reveals all. <br /> <br />Even after the arc lights have long faded, <br /> the audience, now invisible, have stayed over. <br />Here, I can still see your pirouettes, frozen <br /> as time-lapse exposures, feel <br /> the murmuring shadow of an accompanist's <br />intricate raga in this theatre of darkness, <br /> <br />a darkness where oblique memories of my <br /> quiet Kalakshetra days filter, <br />matching your very own of another time, <br /> where darkness itself is sleeping light, <br /> light that merges, reshapes, and ignites, <br />dancing delicately in the half-light. <br /> <br />But it is this sacred darkness that endures, <br /> melting light with desire, desire that simmers <br />and sparks the radiance of your <br /> quiet femininity, as the female dancer <br /> now illuminates everything visible: clear, <br />poetic, passionate, and ice-pure. <br /> <br /><br />Sudeep Sen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bharatanatyam-dancer/
