The second piece was about a lady who is both spiritually and sensually in love with her beloved lord Krishna. She tells her friend that all she longs for is to meet her beloved, describing Krishna in his divine spirit. In this piece she brought out her pure and sensual love for her lord....
The third piece was taken from a Tamil poem written several centuries ago. It is about a youthful, heroic warrior who has been killed on the battlefield. And as he lays there, with dust over his chest, there is a woman who recognizes him and grieves over his death. She thinks about his mother who will be devastated. The mother herself proudly talks about her son being the banyan tree in her backyard. Just like the banyan tree with its huge trunk and all the birds whose home it is and like it gives every passerby shade, in the same way her son protects her. The woman grieves as she remembers his childhood and youth and how all the women would fall in love with him. She tells all the women to now take off their bangles and their jewels, for the ballad to stop writing poetry now for the man himself is dead. The grief of this piece was brought out beautifully through her movements....
The last piece was simply a musical symphony of different beats. It became faster and faster as the piece progressed and more and more intense. The last piece literally took my breath away, as suddenly there was no more a dance on infront of me, but my body swayed to the energy that she had herself become. Her body was moving but she was not it, she had become one with everything....oooo .... beautiful!!!! Every part of her body was in perfect rythm, as it felt like she was the conductor of an orchestra itsself!
As she had said before the piece....the composition is like a canvas, the dancer strokes the colours with his brush, and what you see is the painting. The dancer must be all of an artist, a poet and a singer. It is somewhere in that dance, that the dance becomes the music and the music itself becomes the dance. ....
Adding a poem....
Intensity
An artist at work, his painting he becomes,
A dancer whose body just a reflection of the soul, to the rhythm it hums.
The writer whose words spill out from beyond his confines,
The athlete who plays as though his life were on the line.
The actor who no more, with the character has become one,
The chef for whom not food but creation itself is being spun.
When all that one is, has become lost in the act he performs,
For in that moment he lives it, breathes it, it is his passion and his dream,
It is in that intensity that miracles find steam.
For in that moment the person himself remains no more,
One with all of existence has become his very core.
A woman sweeping the floor lets no grain of dust pass her observant eye,
Cutting vegetables sits the maid, so engrossed in each slice, unnoticed goes my watchful sigh.
Begs a monk with his cup of alms, an intense stare of hunger yet joy on his face,
A vegetable vendor calls out with love for what he sells, with a steady, graceful pace.
The barber cutting the man’s hair, his eyes only focus the strands to be given shape,
The gardener busy watering the plants, gently sprinkling, lovingly at them he gapes.
When the heart is all there is at work, with the mind no more to be dealt,
Involved in the task so deeply one is, that only the enjoyment of not being can be felt.
Forgotten are myself and me, for the precision of the task is what remains,
A combined cluster of focus and will, the ceasing of all mind games.
It is where thinking is a far and awareness is all there is,That is when intense we become and divine perfection can we give.
An artist at work, his painting he becomes,
A dancer whose body just a reflection of the soul, to the rhythm it hums.
The writer whose words spill out from beyond his confines,
The athlete who plays as though his life were on the line.
The actor who no more, with the character has become one,
The chef for whom not food but creation itself is being spun.
When all that one is, has become lost in the act he performs,
For in that moment he lives it, breathes it, it is his passion and his dream,
It is in that intensity that miracles find steam.
For in that moment the person himself remains no more,
One with all of existence has become his very core.
A woman sweeping the floor lets no grain of dust pass her observant eye,
Cutting vegetables sits the maid, so engrossed in each slice, unnoticed goes my watchful sigh.
Begs a monk with his cup of alms, an intense stare of hunger yet joy on his face,
A vegetable vendor calls out with love for what he sells, with a steady, graceful pace.
The barber cutting the man’s hair, his eyes only focus the strands to be given shape,
The gardener busy watering the plants, gently sprinkling, lovingly at them he gapes.
When the heart is all there is at work, with the mind no more to be dealt,
Involved in the task so deeply one is, that only the enjoyment of not being can be felt.
Forgotten are myself and me, for the precision of the task is what remains,
A combined cluster of focus and will, the ceasing of all mind games.
It is where thinking is a far and awareness is all there is,That is when intense we become and divine perfection can we give.
1 comment:
'intensity' is just beautiful... captures the poetry all around us in what may appear mundane to most, but sheer poetry if one chooses to look at things from another perspective! encore, encore!!
Post a Comment