Frau Troffea kicked things off, quickstepping out into
the sweltering July day, to perform a series of jerks
and shakes, that lasted until sunset and started again at dawn.
Her unstoppable display spreading like a virus, until it seemed
the whole of Strasbourg had succumbed. Burgher and pauper
on an equal footing with their shared urge to twist and shout.
A sixteenth century rave, historians would later claim
ergot poisoning or mass hysteria to blame. But back, when
Hell's torture chambers were frescoed onto the walls of minds,
belief lent towards a divine punishment. For weeks the bone
rattling raged, the afflicted collapsing with exhaustion
or worse jitterbugged to their graves.
Attempted cures that failed, ranged from crosses painted
onto bloodied feet to holy water sprinkled, crucifixes waved.
Only after forgiveness sought from Saint Vitus, at that haloed
choreographer's shrine, did the merry dance they suspected
he was leading them, start to wane.
Stephen Bone
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Stephen Bone would like to hear them
