The Poetry of Motion

A Love Song from a Lifetime Ago

(The Kiss by August Rodin, 1882

There’s a word no poet can name. There’s a shape no artist can paint. There’s a note no song can reach. There’s a rhythm no drum can beat. 

There is art in movement, the dancers know. 
There is a poetry of motion, a poetry no words can show. 

Music is the decoration of time, and art is the decoration of space, poetry is the music of rhyme, motion is the magic of place. 

Have you ever seen a mare, running on the wind, free without a care, not knowing of sin? 

Have you heard the engines roar, tearing tunnels through the air, to our hearts in which they bore, cutting silence like a flare.  

The poet has his words, and the painter has her brush, but neither can truly capture, the beauty of a rush. 

Close your eyes, forget the place, breathe in three times: 
A whole new space.


~


Things are in motion, a celestial beauty, 
The rhythm of time, G-d’s favorite duty. 

Doubt not the rush, Don’t lose the feeling, 
Trust in the truth, of suns setting to evening. 

The beauty of flow, the beauty of water, the beauty of bodies embracing their honor. 

Watch how they fit, feel how they blush, listen to this, the sound of a touch. 

Can you watch a heart beat? Do you know how it looks? Can you see the streets weep? For the children that they took. 

Man’s art stands in statues, G-d’s flows like the sea. Do you know the difference, when your eyes stare at me? 

Look how things move, see how things change. There’s a current going through the universe, and she rides it like the rain. 

She’s gliding through air, elegant and tall, but her beauty stands above, any of this at all. 

It’s a beauty that really moves, 
For it no words suffice. 
The beauty is the movement, 
like the sound of falling dice. 

There’s a poetry to motion, there’s an art to alchemy, the beautifully churning ocean, unmoved but not at peace. 

There’s a music to the moments, and how they pass away; it’s a never ending romance, between Beauty and Decay. 

So watch her when she walks, 
Study how she moves, 
Her body, time and space, 
Are really in a groove. 
And when she’s gone, look up at the moon, 
And think about the tides,
Two lovers locked in Ebb and Flow, 
A fugato so divine.