Dorothea Barth Musician and WriterElegant Violin Music for your Wedding or Special EventCeltic Sheet Music Arrangements
Original CompositionsPoetry and Prose

Past early egret, fragrant vines
The soundtrack sings of rags and feathers
A prophecy of sights to come
Along with flowers, lace and leathers

Sweet grapes transform to apples
My destination west
The heart speeds and anticipates
As I roll into Tribal Fest

So eager after many years
To reconnect with ancient dance
That energized my youthful dreams
Discovered once through happenstance

Awakened by the learning
Old tales to me made new
Mysterious Romany ways
Their talent and taboo

The show begins, the songs unfold
With lens in hand, I take my seat
Enveloped by the rock and roll
While searching for the tribal beat

I see the unexpected:
From wolf or pig I could not tell,
A dancer slyly shifts her shape
To maiden casting subtle spell

I see the rich and layered
Tableau within the castle
A studied synchronicity
Of turban, twirl, and tassel

I see the NorthCoast dancer
Who spins her verdant veils
Her turns so fluid and so fast
Beyond my lens she sails

And many through the palace prance
With hints of beledi and all
Though the music doesn't match
And costumes are not Orientale

At last it is my chance to dance
Not in castle but in class
Imbibe the passion of the Greeks
Dance like Zorba, raise that glass!

Put a swagger in that step
Now stagger, but in time!
Be a drunk in a midnight choir
(One half of a borrowed rhyme)

Learn to dance with attitude
Inspires the lively teacher
As I recall another verse
From a Zen monk (not preacher)

While struggling with the steps, I muse
Did perchance to me he sing?
“For the prima ballerina
Who cannot dance to anything”?

The evening show now summons
And soon it has begun
The room is overflowing
The sound a deafening din

A roar outside the castle
A blur of black and white
Fighting moves unfathomed
Yet met with huge delight

The program makes it clear to all
The stars are out tonight
I’m ready for the radiance
But witness this peculiar sight:

The tribe is skilled, the steps are tight
But here’s the quandary:
In lingerie and garter belts
They’ve crossed a boundary

And as they fuse the tribal
They thrust their limbs, Vavoom!
Revealing body over soul
And I escape the room

I journey back on Sunday
Romany rediscovered
And just before the talk begins
I speak, scarcely recovered

I mention what I saw last night
And how it ill conveys
The dance I well remember
Of subtlety and grace

So long it takes to master
This moving sculpture dance
Its beauty and its skill expressed
In flowing gesture, fervent glance

By willful alteration
By changing its intent
It seems no longer belly dance
But movement strangely spent

Did I say too much, perhaps
A dialogue astray?
“Begin the class,” a voice proclaims
This discord put away!

Still perplexed, I wonder
Is honesty not wise?
To share my truth, my point of view
My shock and my surprise?

I’m but one voice of ‘74
Once lured by rare romance
That clashed with urban utterance
And lost its resonance

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story poem was inspired by Tribal Fest 11. I signed up for two classes and enjoyed the informative and well researched Romany lecture class taught by E. Artemis Mourat on Saturday and Sunday as well as the vibrant Gutsy Greek Bellydance class taught by Lee Ali on Saturday afternoon.

I wasn't able to attend Sunday's show but admired a number of the performances I saw on Saturday. However, I felt a disconnect with a fusion style I didn’t recognize but believe is considered urban tribal--particularly unsettling when burlesque gestures and costuming were blended into the presentation.

I don't consider myself a critic, indeed, don't feel I ever gained enough mastery to serve as one, but I've seen a lot of belly dance since being first smitten by this dance in the early 1970's. What kept me coming back to it both as student and as audience was its subtlety and grace and its masterful blending of controlled staccato and flowing legato moves emanating from the center. Therefore, I felt moved to share my reaction to what seemed like a startling deviation from these qualities.

While driving to and from Sebastopol, I listened to a CD by the great Leonard Cohen; his imagery enters this poem several times when it seemed synchronous with my experience at Tribal Fest. Cohen fans will recognize imagery from Suzanne ("rags and feathers"), Bird on the Wire ("drunk in a midnight choir"), and Heart with No Companion ("To the prima ballerina/Who cannot dance to anything").

The photo that accompanies this poem is of me in my Persian lace in 1981.