So, in the spirit of tricking people into reading poetry, particularly Irish poetry, and slyly encouraging people to want to participate in any form of social or folk dancing available to them . . . one of my favorites from Austin Clarke.  It’s compressed and lyrical.  It depicts one hell of a kitchen party, to my mind’s eye:

The Planter’s Daughter

When night stirred at sea,
And the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went —
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.

The planter’s daughter is a dancer, you know.  If people are going to look at you anyway, they might as well look at you because you’re feet are battering out fantastic rhythms on the floor.  And if you have legs that are nine feet long (Aes), or enough attitude and, er womanly charms to light the sky on fire (Lonan), or in-born musicality and youth and vigor (Ulrich) then it’s your duty to dance.  Your duty, I say!  Also, percussive dancers are hott. 

And if you need dance shoes, you should get Stevens Stompers, and they should be black.  To learn, you should not wear taps.  Once you’re ready for taps, they should be buck taps.  Because, like I said before, Satan makes jingle taps.  Or maybe it was Nero, yeah, Nero invented the jingle tap.   Are you going to wear anything Nero invented?  Heck no.  That would be wrong.

And go to Glen Echo on Friday.  Or on Sunday.  Actually, you can go there and dance four nights a week.  Call me first, mmmkay?

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