The Dancer Poem by John F. McCullagh

The picture hangs upon the wall
of a slender woman, une eleve
She is eternally en pointe
a Student of great Nurerev.


With Martha Graham’s Corps de ballet
She’d danced (before the children came)
Performed a beautiful Glissade-
enjoyed, for a while, a muted fame.

Light and shade proportionate
here catch her look of radiant joy
The dancer, ignorant of her fate,
seems more a heavenly envoy.


But you and I both know the rest-
The ravages of age and time
The sad result of little strokes
that slow the step and cloud the mind.


Here is her cane, her walker too
Their owner has succumbed to age
There will not be a pas de deux
Nor bouquets tossed upon the stage.