Critic: Tell me, Mr. Balanchine, where did you ever see Apollo on his knees?

Balanchine: Tell me, Mr. So and so, where did you ever see Apollo?


I. Prologue

All good art begins with a weird birth unseen,

     or seen as dotted rhythms knocking hard on high:       here

a mountainous mother, heaving a landslide

            to cushion the fall

out of the swaddling        massive.          Quick—coupé

turning point to quaver         weedy limbs.

There will be no dead spots anywhere.


II. Variation of Apollo

The problem of the poem—like the problem of the lute—

can be thawed with play. Instructions:

~ present outwards, unsure of score or strength or harmony;

~ pitch arms wide for a full circle strum;

~ learn the sting of withered efforts and proceed

    body over neck over body with youthful generosity.

These are studied revolutions in attitude and grace.


III. Apollo & the three Muses

A choreographer may tell you this: it always pays

to reinvent oneself, surrounded by women

adept at odd lines—women who grand battement

on pointe and stretch their blistered toes to the sun.

Women who insist a flat-footed shuffle, a turned-in leg

or bent pirouette; sharp educators in civil disobedience

offering tutorials in filigree counterpoint:
            Variation of Calliope

            These hands conduct ecstatic verse from the ribcage

            through an over-thought Alexandrine density.

            When vision is thin, the chest caves in. (This I know).

            If you turn your head, I’ll scribble in your sidelines.
            Variation of Polyhymnia

            sh|            gesture can be taught at great speed;

            a saucy pirouette with one finger to the lips—

            the imagination goes wild. sh|  The fun of mime

            can be a tonic for new movement; the danger is

	            			                         (mouth flung wide)     O  ||
            Variation of Terpsichore

            One must use the stage wisely to reveal

            the body’s jigsaw precision: here are the hips,

            twisty as a soda top; the arms breezy; tendons flexed.

            The dance is lean-revelation and pluck; the body is a neat thing.
Apollo is opening, closing his fist—neon

    flashing lights—and now he knows this

about kick and control; subtle liaisons

    of language and line. Let us go, he says,

for a slow walk, or a swimming lesson, or frisky

    diversions in the troika. Bounce the strings

fast and strong enough to test our laurels without

    fear of fall or rest within the score.

His attention is drawn wide as a curtain

    on a New York apartment window.


IV. Apotheosis

Adolescence is a half-hour exertion—so it seems

what’s hard is best learned fast. To dare not use

everything but draw together certain family relations

in one’s art: music, movement, humour—

humble pie and vodka            with a side of disagreement
cut short.        (We’ll continue the conversation upstairs).


Notes:

Based upon the choreography of George Balanchine, 1928 and music of Igor Stravinsky, 1927/28