We had Country Dancing at school,
an endurance test for boys
who wanted no part of the pre-pubescent
courtly game
and for the girls,
though I cannot speak with firm authority,
they wanted no part of being involved with
the boys, pre-testosterone, pre hormones,
before manners, before holding hands
was an aspiration, before the scent
of something more by being renowned
for your dancing moves got you the smile
from the girl in the corner
as she shyly sucked on her Panda Pops
lemonade and burped sideways as not to appear
on the verge of abandoned woman hood,
wanting only to touch your hair,
long and feminine as was the fashion,
then you thanked your school teacher,
part Gestapo Rottweiler, part Security guard
for the Pope as he preached abstinence, his image
adorned in a thousand homes next to a picture
from a faded copy of Shoot in which the saviour
wore a bubble perm that drove the ladies wild
and made the boys respect his moves
but not as much as the Dutch man
who took the ball and made it his partner
on the field…
and they called it the beautiful game
the silky moves of avoiding her hand as you
avoided the eye of the barking mad teacher
with her gray scolding glasses
and her eyes that reminded you of Sauron,
and why oh why did you have to hold Paula’s
or Marie’s or Christine’s or Dawn’s or Louise’s
or Emma’s or Pauline’s hands…when secretly
you would have now done anything to have appeared
gallant and a gentleman at such a young age
and take the girl for a dance
on the buffed and polished school hall floor
where assembly was a reason to sing your heart out,
Morning Has Broken, just like your voice would
when all you could think of was how right
Pink Floyd were in the winter of 1979;
Oi teacher leave those kids
to shuffle and pick their nose
and laugh at their mate whose two left feet
has Paula seeing red, dear sweet Paula,
dear sweet Marie, holding my hand
as I pretended to squirm
and would have Simon, Andy, David, Adam,
Paul or Chris laugh their eager young faces off
as I Allemande, Gypsy
and wanted to die at the gate…
Country Dancing, a waste of time
except for the regret of being such a boy,
hating the pomp and ceremony of it all,
what was it meant to achieve in the
days since…
except to remind us of moments
in which teacher could find a way
to embarrass us.
Ian D. Hall 2017