Poems Excerpt From
A BOOK OF HEALING POEMS AND SOULFUL IMAGES
WRITTEN BY MARION J. SOLE
Copyright 2001 Marion J. Sole
LIFE IS A DANCE
dance, my soul flies free
My arms like wings lift me to sheer ecstasy
My feet balance the weights of this ever-changing life
And my eyes see your pain and wish it away
I bring my heart to you and share a spell that binds us for a moment or two
Only to hope you carry that joy to another close by
Through dance I talk to you and hope you do not feel alone
I learn through your dreams and prayers
So let us dance together and feel timeless
I only ask that you understand that life moves on
Dance is life and life is a dance
Watch me dance and see, you'll learn like me
That life is really no mystery
But an adventure just waiting to be
AN EGYPTIAN MAN
Heritage of God’s land and sand
Is a man with dark eyes that hold mysteries untold
I too am now a memory to hold
You touched my heart like the feathers of a fan
I caressed your heart as gently as I could
As you took me to times unknown
When the sands are blinding you in a storm and
You are hiding the way to the treasures of the soul
Feel my arms protect you over the spans of oceans and time
When you feel that tender yearning possessing you soundly
Let the moment brandish the dark of the night
For my love will seduce you in the twilight of the morn
Here, there, nowhere to call home
Searching, seeing, so many lands
My flashing heels lift in a frenzy of spinning undulations
Nights of passion writhing in ambers of fires spent
Silk-fringed shawls drape my hopes
As layers of multihued ruffles fly in anticipation of adventure
I live for the strains of whining violins
Pulsing rhythms drive my desire
I throw my hair in defiance of your codes
For Gypsy is who I am
The need to create is not to rebel against the usual
But to give witness in voice to the truth
As a truly gifted and accomplished people
The most interesting aspect of our creativity
Is that we can communicate the unseen world into the visible
Giving new shape and form to the foundation you inspired
Actual Picture of Amara At Lincoln Center Performing as told by Amara's mother
Elizabeth Miller and Ward Miller
The sun fell behind the horizon and the night began. The lights flashed on, illuminating the outdoor band shell. The audience hushed their neighborly conversations as the band assembled; some dressed in Arab caftans and headbands. The harsh, persistent sound of the Middle Eastern drums, the stringed oud and various other instruments including a ram’s horn, heralded the beginning of Serena’s annual ethnic dance festival. I strained to see my daughter waiting in the wings for her turn as a soloist dancer.
How does a mother feel about her grown up, thirty-five year old daughter dancing seductively and brilliantly in front of about 3000 New York City strangers to her sweetness and only interested in being entertained? I had no time for reflection as the stage filled with lovely young women, gliding their way to their positions for the start of the dance. Their costumes were dazzling, each one different and unique.
There were veils of every color, gold fringe shimmered and layers of silver and gold coins tinkled, as so many tiny bells, with the rippling movement of lithe bodies. Jeweled crowns and luxurious veils hardly contained their flowing long hair, whipping bare shoulders and hiding beautiful faces, first innocent then alluring and demanding our souls as the drum beats quickened.
Where was my daughter? My heart pounded with excitement and I could hardly breathe. I studied the program and didn’t see her name. Then I realized that only their stage names were used. Marion was Amara while she danced.
One other time, a very young Marion took my breath away and loosened my tears from a heart full of pride when she danced at her school. I pray that I’ll never lose that excitement in her creativity and take it for granted.
I watched her twirling, twisting gyrations of each performer, oblivious of anyone else in the audience, as though they were dancing for me alone. I longed to be up there with them. The magnetism and expertise of their performance was very compelling and enough to cause us to clap enthusiastically in rhythm to the cadence of the music.
Then there she was, Amara! She floated to center stage as the chorus of dancers melted down and drifted into a seated semicircle around the back of the stage. The drums quieted and a lone flute sang its sultry song and she began weaving her spell over us. She was a witch, remote and careful, relentlessly conjuring the vision of those long ago Arabian Nights with each sweep of her veils. She leaped across the stage with long legs, stretched beyond the restrictions of bones and muscles. Her head whirled in Dervish turns and her body undulated and defied gravity with low backbends, drawing us into her power. Then she was gone. As though a Genie had breathed his magic vapor over her and carried here away.
Other visions of loveliness appeared in turn. One oriental beauty danced her way into our hearts with candelabra with four lighted candles on her head. Another executed a sword dance, frightening us with its wickedness and danger. Another surprised us by appearing enveloped in a voluminous hooded caftan which seemed to lift off of her body effortlessly as she whirled within it. They all charmed us with their superb ability and control to be surpasses only by Serena. She is a dream, almost not to be believed. She is the Middle Eastern Dance in the truest artistic sense, uncorrupted by the idea of the uneducated of the Belly Dance.
The staging, by Serena, of the dances seemed effortless, one performance melting into the next one, carrying us away on their magic carpet of dreams until the grand finale. Drums beating wildly, they swept down from the stage and engulfed us, dancing in and around, touching, teasing, and alas proving their reality.
I was sorry to be awakened from the spell they had woven as my daughter whirled her veils all around me and came into my arms as she did long ago as a little girl when she wanted my approval. The dance was finished. Amara was Marion again.