CORDOBAN FLAMENCO                                       

Willowy’s the word, correct, cold for their shape –

at first sight, that is; now I recall lightning in miniature,

in the charge of two dancers, on a stage in a bar.

It all started serenely enough: a clean, clear guitar,

left hand fingers caressing a well-worn fretboard,

right hand stroking, coaxing, firm and physical.

 

Then the clapping, intense, integral, essential,

the fingers and palms themselves fine instruments,

six hands working as one to pace the dance, to

push it, to goad it, to load the air and attack the ear with

excited atoms, patterns of sound, the mix in the room

of a textile mill with a hundred fast heartbeats.

 

Then, requesting attention, a slap from the guitar

and the dancers rise, slowly on their toes, as the singer

announces a love, endorsed by their bodies,

which move only to offer the one to the other, to

fan the fire. They whirl, they circle, they itch to touch –

but know they may not; their eyes flash anger.

 

Now their entire bodies shake, commanded by

messages from heads entranced to limbs,

skulls empty save for cruel demands showered on

every muscle in spasm, quicker and quicker,

sweat pushing at every pore, dripping through

the beard of the male dancer, moistening

the cheeks and chin of the other; and soon to

crescendo, for it was all sex if it was anything at all.

 

And so an explosion indeed; the male dancer’s body

shouts loud his release, leaping from the stage, his

rage done, pulled off the rack, his body slowing

for a moment; but he looks back across the chasm,

and readies himself for further battle, the stake not

her alone but to speak, to feel, to see all he

wants of the world. He draws in the breath required,

then strides back to the stage. The audience erupts,

he bows so low his head must wipe the floor; meanwhile

she smiles in wonder, what greater praise?

 

Now she dances alone, rising to her feet from a

tiny chair, her throne (she needs no more), she

rules from her soul – no less passion’s metaphor than him;

she is the full embodiment of woman’s love and lust,

must let no dust settle on either, ensure that she

dances with him equal in their art, equal in her message.

I see how she bends her body, this way then that;

she could make an alphabet of subtle shapes,

conduct a love affair in a language few can know of,

fewer can speak. I read and seed my own story.

 

We rose to leave and walk in the cool evening air,

beaten to the door by four figures dressed in black,

now ordinary, like us, the buzz around all our heads

of a sound that was theirs, to be compared with any –

good to know they could be such masters of their art

yet walk out into the same night and disappear.

 

 

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