an ode to essence: three poems by Olga Dugan

a young ballerina, image by sobima, on Pixabay

Three poems inspired by the life of prima ballerina Marta Cinta. 

an ode to essence 

                   (for Susan) 

falsified documents display several 

names, hide from where I come 

Rosamunda, Marta Cinta, Marta 

González Saldaña from Cuba? Madrid? 

but my therapist knows me— 

the terpsichorean linked by music 

to surroundings, mood 

transforming ironclad discipline 

physical pain, competitiveness 

with no mercy 

to flexibility 

elegance, an ear that makes 

feet, legs, hands, curved arms, joints 

of spirit, joints of soul move 

makes my body easier to turn into lines 

textural patterns of allegories for 

loneliness or connection, makes its 

tender image lay bare the rawest emotions           

pouring through my skin like water 

he entreats me to speak the dancer’s 

language to Songs of the Swan  and I try 

whited hair, whited face, whited 

palms lifting whited fingers 

skillfully extended from whitest wrists 

I stir then cease until his kiss on a 

limped hand excites withered strength 

bringing attitude, memories 

thoughts, worlds to awareness, to core 

as I raise arms outward with a soft 

gentle reach for love over curse 

________ 

an ode to essence: restoration 

born again from Spirit and water 

the dancer rises on the lake 

lucent swan to woman of light 

I’m her in flight off sea surface 

pushing with toes, legs jumping 

through thin air to times gone by 

when I was an impossible, a dream 

audiences applauded in theaters 

around the world, whose talent 

the press surrendered to 

prima ballerina gracefully moving 

vibrant eyes agaze, fluttering hands 

arms in elegant arcs as the orchestral                  

brass intensifies, blending resilience 

hope with the mental, moral qualities 

glowing through this essence unbound 

by age, unafflicted by wheelchair, disease 

my therapist speaks to the artist, Marta 

and I with majestic poise reply, you excite me 

he smiles, you excite us... dancing so well 

I smile too, parting palms that shake now 

and pat his so loving face 

for a moment he helped me share what binds 

flowers—Black-Eyed Susan, Arabette, Lily 

Columbine, wildest Peony—this perennial 

right to rival graceful rivulets of stars at play               

carry in cheek the days of goodness 

in brow, a peaceful mind among others 

relaxing hands over paraplegic knees now 

what most would sadly see as demented 

decrease of emotional, physical response 

turnoff of natural fight or flight 

is only my inspirited woman revived / safe 

pacing across holy ground  past cognitive skin 

past sighted corners of dulling eyes 

to lie down, eternally restored, at the water                 

_________ 

an ode to essence: victory 

the sun has a few hours before setting 

after our daily activities, we’re allowed 

a short break out here where music                          

plays in songs of gold leaves, rhythmic 

skylines, buildings like xylophone keys 

struck by blue warmth and the syncopated 

beat of afternoon air that lifts and lands past 

dizziness, hallucinations, afflicted memory 

music—my therapist joins me, possibility 

glinting his shadow against the railing— 

it speaks in assemblage of body in motion 

allowing us to hear what we cannot 

say or see, gestures maneuvers continuous 

evidence of all we offer to make ourselves 

understood, I love what you wish to do 

and he leans on a wall near the open door 

its dance, I gather nerve to tell the others 

explaining my dream of doing ballet in our 

nursing home with the elderly for whom 

hearing, moving to music remain the last 

capabilities we still have, in dance 

full of emotion, full of color, we elevate 

to what makes poetry, the best of eternity 

God has placed in us, every adagio claims 

peace over unrest, every jeté sustains us along 

the dark walk of not knowing, every pirouette 

to plié encourages joy that revives hope—secret 

contentment with the little we keep losing 

most choose to wattle into a good night 

oblivious to storms falling around us 

they snark at my words, just foolishness, they say 

and leave us under the tender evening, while 

a remnant thinks of making lines, curves, springs 

challenges to live giving breath to the untouchable 

the self—neither fog nor forgetting can truly erase                      

if only for the moment a right step brings the 

me  who’s left when the lot else is gone 

Olga Dugan’s award-winning poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes. A Cave Canem Fellow, Olga’s work appears in many literary journals and anthologies, including Inkwell (formerly Ekstasis), Lived In, Litmosphere, The Write Launch, Spirit Fire

Review, Reformed Journal, The Sunlight Press, Ariel Chart, Relief, The Windhover, Channel (Ireland), Kweli, Sky Island Journal, evolution:

The Red Moon Anthology of English-Language Haiku, Munster Literature Centre's Poems from Pandemia, and others.

September 2025 issue