Flamenco Song
I wasn't ready for it when it hit.
Pathetic, self-absorbed, wallowing in grief,
plaiting the threads of self-disgust and wit,
I toyed with tragic sonnets for relief.
The night was hot. The cleft of Guadalin
crammed air, weighed down with jasmine, hard to breathe,
like musk in tall clay jars. I heard a skein
of song. It rose. It swirled. It dipped and writhed.
There, at my window, I was held, transfixed.
It was the ancient song of blood and soil.
That wailing voice was stinging, bitter - but was mixed
with darker tremelos which fizzed and boiled,
then sank again. It almost seemed the shock
of that shrill voice, embodiment of pain,
had stunned guitarist's hand. His rhythmic knock
reminded me of coffins in the rain.
Voluptuous and frightening at one time,
mellifluous and jarring, fresh yet rotten,
the music was both guttural and sublime:
my puerile self-obsession was forgotten!
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
