Gerry Jacobson
The Dance of Denial
empty space in the dance hall shafts of slanting sunlight pierce silence and stillness
I deny it every day, although I know in my heart it’s better to acknowledge it. What’s happening to our beautiful Earth? The emails flood the inbox: refugees, endangered species, global heating, global hating, corruption, pulp mills, Aboriginal rights. I flick them to a folder marked ‘Activism’. They stay there forever, inactive. Occasionally I donate money for other peoples’ actions. Very occasionally I attend a meeting.
My eyes are cast down looking at the ground one step ahead, thinking of the next meal, the next café, the next poem.
The ribbon gum next door is to be cut down. The chainsaw gang turn up, and I disappear, take off to a café and read poetry over a cup of orange pekoe. I don’t want to see the death of a tall, stately tree.
I’ve always blocked the pain, blocked it out with song, with dance, with the endorphins of the mountain top and of the love affair.
slowly dancing with myself through blurred eyes sensing the others I am not alone
About the Author
Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafes. He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.