We've had this poem sent through from a poet who attended the aerial dance workshops run at Ashcraig School in Glasgow end of November. We thought we'd share it with you...
FLYING SCHOOL
Today in gym the class are learning to fly
They whoop. They’ve been let loose from double maths
for this afternoon’s workshop. Circus Skills.
They leave wheelchairs and a cobalt blue walking frame
in a corner. It’s time to wake muscles
that grimace if they’re touched. I watch a girl
migrate. She steps into a rope harness
I can scarcely see, then grins as the air
opens for her. I shiver as she swoops
past, caught by her draughts. She can do what she likes
now, powerful, so long as we’re convinced
she’s controlling the moves, shifting her weight
in this aerial dance so ropes will take
her where she wants to go. She does the twist,
then climbs ten feet to look down on her chair.
A new perspective. So often she’s looked up,
trying to catch an eye so she can talk,
or listened to doctors explaining no,
she’ll never tie shoelaces, walk or cook a meal….
Fill in this space. Afterwards she’s dizzy,
but amazed. She can’t wait to do it again.
Though these lessons will only last a week
and then it’s back to symmetry, exams,
I hope that she remembers how to soar.
When she has forgotten her times tables,
how flowers have sex or what some genius said,
she’ll still need to remember how to set
her own speed and direction. Flight’s a skill
she’ll practice daily for the rest of her life,
floating above a gobsmacked audience
who’re certain she must fall. Their hands outstretched.
they brace themselves, eyes wide, for her to lose
this impossible stance she’s taken up.
I hope she glides past their worried faces,
carried by a current of warm air, head
full of plans, still sure she can stay airborne.
Nuala Watt
13th December 2009.
Oh wow. :')
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