Rehearsal

 

Green rollers shatter into hands that shoot

And clutch, and fail, and fall; and others follow.

The sun burns in blue Heaven, the bees hum,

A lizard glistens on the fig tree root.

Leave now, the sunlight, for this tunnel’s hollow...

This is the Tower, here is Roland come.

 

Imagine a vast room, unwindowed, lit

By bulbs on cables stretched across the ceiling.

One wall is looking-glass, the rest are white,

With dancers’ barres and sand-box full of grit.

The floor is laid with narrow yellow dealing.

Here are the preparations of delight.

 

There are no furnishings, save chairs that fold

Close to the wall, and this piano propping

A score, bound in blue parer, of Mozart.

But now the shepherd calls his flock to fold,

Forth, from within, the company comes hopping,

And groups are posed before rehearsals start.

 

Most of the dancers wear black practice-dress,

With coloured kerchiefs on their temples banded,

Pale shoe-straps cross their ankles; most are young;

With chatter and with laughter and caress

They sit or lie in grouping as commanded,

The women’s scarves upon the barres are hung.

 

Twenty or thirty others gather; some

Are famous through the planet for their graces.

Keenly they watch the posing of the groups.

Their chaff and chatter makes a merry hum.

The regisseur with pencil plots the places,

The posers rise and join the other troops.

 

Now the producer calls, and at the call

Beginners hurry; the piano, playing

That long-familiar Mozart, starts the play.

Like tappings upon drums the footings fall.

Imagined passion sets the puppets swaying...

The Master claps his hands, the dancers stay.

 

He speaks reproof, corrects a pose, improves

What had seemed ragged, then again the story

Swings to the music, and the tale unfolds.

Now like a race-course under racers’ hooves

The planking quakes, the music brings a glory.

Then the hands clap, the tune stops, the voice scolds.

 

Meanwhile, beside a dusty crate of props,

A famous dancer poses at the glasses

Correcting movements of the arms and hands.

He seeks a beauty never sold in shops,

He seeks the star that lightens and surpasses,

The deathless star, when what is mortal stops,

And spirit poises timeless without bands.

 

John Masefield