When I was in Junior High School, we did a lot of dancing. We made “Poi Balls” and sticks (I am sorry to say I’ve forgotten the proper name of the sticks, probably Poi Sticks. Heck I’m not really sure the balls-on-a-string we all made were actually called Poi Balls, other than by us). We did elaborate, long dances with those balls and sticks, it seems like it was hundreds of us, but it was probably closer to 50 girls.
Fifty girls all twirling balls on string and dancing rhythmically and in unison, in a pseudo-Polynesian manner to the longest pop songs ever endured by any man, woman or child–seems like it was always the Doobie Brothers.
We-e-ell, yesterday I was doodling around and came across this Poi Fire Dancing… Man, if they’d said, “Now girls, imagine it’s a hot, balmy night, it’s dark, you smell ginger and plumeria and gardenia on the breeze… Knowing instinctively what to do, you dip your poi balls in fuel, massaging them to make sure they’re fully saturated, gently wring them out and then light them on fire.”
“Oh, and by the way girls, you’re going to need wicks on chains girls, wicks on chains. Burning poi balls flying through the air = strictly no good. Now dance!” Man , that would have been a horse of a different color, would have put a whole new spin on it, if you know what mean. Would have looked a lot like this… well, almost.
Maybe it’s time to pick up the old poi balls and give them a twirl… after I mow.
