Ritual came before art, probably before us
As a species, given the ritual behaviors
Of some others. And ritual has remained
More powerful than art, whenever the two
Tangle. This ballet, for instance, is ritual
No matter how rooted in art. Christmas
Coughs it up again and again, like the songs
And everything else entrained in that wake,
From holiday lights to Handel’s Messiah.
There’s an undertow to ritual that drowns
The heart, and like any other undertow
It rolls in the beauty of land’s ends. Art
Pulled out to fathom five, pearls that were
Its eyes. Deep as doom and as luscious,
The ritual reenactment of the wondertale,
The dream story about living toys, fairies,
And that all-too human cruelty, invention,
Played out on a handsome stage again,
Under the massive chandelier to a crowd
Dressed up as they would not bother to
For even temple, church, or Broadway.
There was applause for every pirouette
And initiates, the children like my daughter,
Exchanged bemused whispers with parents,
Grandparents, and guardians. My favorite
Tendency of rituals held true—innocuous
Execution (how funny the mouse king, dying,
How brisk the Cossacks and the dragon)
Of a nonsense narrative rooted in terror.
Well, why not? Is there a better way of life
Than to live and dance as if the facts
Supported a benign understanding of death?
Good Clara, who sits politely, night after night
Through the exhausting repertoire of dances,
Never really getting her turn, embodies art,
The observer. You want art the creator,
The genius, I know. But it’s not like that.
The story may start as art. Art may dream
The fantasy. But ritual compels attention.
After the performance, in the lobby, daughter
Examined the varieties of finery and spotted
Dancers returning to life in their street clothes,
Distinguished by ritual bouquets of flowers,
Hair up in buns, and long, lissome bodies.
But I know she felt the art as well, I know
She understood, because she told me
That it would be better if Clara had something
To do. Good girl. Good observation. It’s true.
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