Lyrik-tribute to Anzu & Pina
written by: Satis Shroff
@SatisShroff1
AURORA BOREALIS
The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.
Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full-grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer,
Studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.
Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.
I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.
Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions
I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced
At the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.
I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.
I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.
***
POETRY AND DANCE
Her images were unusual,
Shocking to some.
Dancers
Jeering and tormenting
Other dancers.
Dancers
Throwing ripe tomatoes
At each other.
Instead of the bastinado,
Lighters held on the soles
Of other dancers.
Women were women
And men were men,
In Pina’s world.
No melange
Of oestrogen and testosterone,
No X and Y
Chromosomes.
Her women wore scarlet lips,
You were tormented with ballet:
Adagio, flips and turns,
Carried out rigorously.
In the ‘Rite of Spring’
The dancers were covered with soil.
In ‘1980’ there was a lawn.
In ‘Carnations’ the Nelken were crushed
On stage.
In ‘Palermo, Palermo’
A tall wall fell apart.
That was Pina Bausch live.
We’ll miss the facial muscles
Of her performers,
Her own dance choreography,
Warning us all
To stop ruining the Umwelt
Of this precious planet.
A high priestess,
A courageous stage poet,
Who threw constantly
Challenges,
With her mute, energetic
Choreography.
The poetess is gone.
What remains are her images,
Long after the dancers
With their flailing hands,
Have vanished into oblivion.
A numbness lingers
At the Tanztheater Wuppertal.
Exit Pina Bausch
At the age of 68.
- The Angst of Global War - May 27, 2022
- A Gurkha Mother’s Tears - August 16, 2021
- Spotlight On Writers – Satis Shroff - May 15, 2021
