Thanks to Paul Valery

'Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking'
But -
about what sort of dancing are we talking?

The disco do-your-own-thing thing
without a trace of melody to sing?
Clockwork two-step rhythmic monotony?
Something to do with frontal lobotomy?
Or the body sway as if a wind is blowing,
the arms awry like sculling more than rowing,
the nodding head obeisant to the beat,
the glass in hand but no invention in the feet,
the grinning face telling friends this prancing
is something special - "Look at me, I'm dancing".
Much like free form verse ignoring rhyme,
just posing to be admired all the time.

Sometimes the people opt to dance in line
reviving memories of Ibiza holiday time,
whole teams performing synchronised stupidity
as well drilled morons in some military.
Much like the violent, over-rhyming crap
of mechanistic, syncopated rap.

Or, from a different, older generation
some movement of the feet in ambulation,
no drinks in hand when social pensioners jive,
wind-milling arms to prove life still survives,
outlining shapes and patterns as a pair -
concrete poetry typography in air.

And what about the plethora of South American dances?
A cornucopeia of moves the sun enhances -
tango, rumba, cha cha cha, lambada,
forro, samba, salsa and bachata -
all so vitally rhythmic just like terse,
irreverent, witty, comic verse.

And still there's basic ballroom discipline
of foxtrot, quickstep, waltz delivering
the artistry of  Shakespeare and of Byron,
Wordsworth, Hardy, Brooke and Housman -
crafting each individual feeling
whether in the rain or on the ceiling.