I was flushed, almost faint, as I made my way to the stage,
"It is black magic" was the old adage.
Squeezing under here, squirming sideways through there,
My breaths rapid, rhythmic, like
the high notes scattered about the air.
My heart pounding with the base of the speakers, the thump of the pans,
The embarrassing shakes, I couldn't get off my hands.
There was such movement in the crowd,
But in togetherness, no doubt.
The provocative grinding of bodies,
The concerted rhythm in the hips; an unspoken language, it would seem.
The synchronicity of the notes, simply breathtaking,
What it meant needed no narrating.
I envied them all,
Because I longed to express this rhythm I felt inside.
And although I looked and it seemed so easy at first,
I could barely give a jab at the waist, not even a juk.
I was soon to realise something about what I yearned,
This dance reflected an appreciation for steelpan that I must earn.
He had a life of his own,
An energy that fostered tolerance, uniting any race known.
He orchestrated the groove
of each of his players,
Demanding a different wavelength for each respective colour.
For like a rainbow, they were draped across the stands,
With each player showing off his own wavelength for the pan.
All voices in unison,
Such patriotism was never known.
For in the pride of their song and dance,
Echoed a love for La Trinity and everyone throughout this land.
From since whence he made his first appearance in the 1930s alongside Spree,
He has become a symbol of national freedom and creativity.
Dr Mellisa Park