Long Flamenco Poems
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A Polite Warning. The Following poem is somewhat steamy. Not explicit, but explicit in
inference. If this sort of thing offends you, then please be considerate and don’t read
it. Thank you.
Naked Flamenco
( A sultry summer night spent together
With ardour between us growing
She whispered, “Let me dance for you”
I agreed, little knowing………………. )
Binding spells of mysterious wanting
Soft dark her eyes looked
Into the shades of my mind
An enchantress of fantasy
She etched her velvet pattern
On veiled secrets
Parted
Dangerous lashes flutter desirous
In emerald peacock pupils
Midnight burnished hair let fall
In captivating tangles
To full ephemeral corners
Of soft bitten lip
Coy damp line drawn on her cheek
Captivated
Her expression acknowledges
With known provoking smiles
Eye lights shine saying “already mine”
With twisting flamenco poised
Sensual arm insinuates to finger tip
And eventide's rose is pale skinned
And naked
Curved line from ankle
Writes portents to the nape of her neck
Through black tousled sexual spinal blades
Shoulder dipping
Quivers her femininity to rising breasts
While arched longing
Mouths the indescribable tactile seconds
Of her promontory dancing
Patient in toe tip exquisite she places
Penchant elegance
Of her naked ballet
The ribbon swirl of vanished gossamer dress
Depicted wing-ed arms
She rises a surrealistic
Flight of angels created
In soft light air brushed forms
Of muscle, rib cage, bones and tendons
Body writhed centres eclipse
On pubic between
The epitome of gestalts navel breathing
I shudder Goosebumps of enthralling
Built by such grace of a heavenly
Consecrated female
Led beyond mere heated needing
To a place resplendent
With sheer un-tameable and un-nameable beauty
Guitar stringing twangs the milliseconds
Of her overture
Spanish castanets tap click fervent
Pronouncing the rhythm of my heart
Naked pale formed Goddess
Gently rips from me
Every appreciations confession of
Perfections contours
Fine satin sheen hairs risen
Beading sweats slight trickle
Aroused by my infatuation
Nipples stiffen
And I am drawn from and by
Heavy breath to music’s ending
To land in her presence
Panting
She has seen through me
Every century of a woman’s glory
And with a slow beckoning finger
Her eager eyes
Tell me
It is so
The rain keeps coming,
Masking tears of despair, and rivers of agony
Seem in no hurry to crest
In this orb that is my world, I stand in frozen animation
As I listen to the venom of tangled tongues and crooked lips
Then hear the critique of the man in the street
I stop to analyze and find that nothing is said, just a horde
Of ghastly lies
My heart grows heavy, and my chest tightens.
As anger builds, my lungs feel the fire of the now forsaking
Breath, the pain is real,
And I contemplate my fate
In this world of mine
The sun is sad and the moon weeps,
And the walls inch closer.
As my neck plays a melody of twisting knots, my shoulders
Feel as if stomped by the passion of a flamenco dance.
As my temples lament the torment of this harrowing crescendo.
From a place called malice and rage, hate and contempt
Send bouquets,
But in the glory of this floral splendor, lies deceit,
The bewitching fragrance of the day.
And serpents of a human Ilk, their minds filled with disdain and
Spite, come to feed upon my life,
As their minions nibble,
I question my sanity
In this world of mine
Is the theatre of suffering,
Where shadows of rage cloak, a dominion of corruption,
And evil keeps a watchful eye,
And vultures with hearts bitter and cold, stalk,
As if waiting for a carrion to be born, that a feast may begin.
And in this presence of immorality,
Void is the integrity of soul.
As I listen to the wind, I hear the voice of purpose,
And in the verses of the night, Is the message of the day
And the lessons taught,
Are real
In this world of mine
As this deluge of decadence baths a candid soul,
I strive to be freed, from the afflictions
Of being.
And amid the craving for contentment, I beg,
For deliverance,
And rest my fate at the foot of the mountain, for there
Lies truth.
In my meditation, eager I am to see behind the light
And reconnect with the presence within,
For it is there that I hear the sunshine in your voice,
And see the laughter in your eyes.
It is there that courage is present, and I am fraught with the
Effervescence of your smile,
And your face is vibrant
And passion enriches me,
And I, am reborn
In this world of mine
Earl S. Jackson
July 2014
Copyright © 2014 Earl S. Jackson, all rights reserved.
Carlos Bousono’s poem : Recordando a pastora imperio
for Damaso Alonso
(Poem published in the collection : Metaphora del desafuero, 1988, and dedicated
to Damaso Alonso, who exerted on Carlos Bousono an avowed influence and
patronage, concludes my own present tribute to the Maître. I confess I had not
read Bousono’s poems – I may have glanced at a couple of poems when I first
bought the Espasa-Calpe anthology some years ago – before I began translating
them on October 16, 2013.)
I have always thought that in the state of sudden immobility
of the immemorial dancer of flamenco the entire dance
is concentrated of a sudden in this posture
of an instant,
under the weight of centuries,
all of its foregoing agitation,
in such a way as in its absolute fixation is to be found
its passing and its minute ad mysterious simulation :
the flight of sea gulls over the sea, their avid and sudden swoop
onto the prey,
and she herself, the flamenco dancer herself, becomes in that instant,
like the form most refined and pure
of such an incomprehensible paradox : velocity and paralisation,
becoming more dense in the procès
between Aquiles and parsimony,
or the tortoise and despair…
No, there is no différence,
because to differentiate hère is to make a descent,
while here there is but an ascent.
And has the flamenco dancer understood suddenly
that to make a move
is an intolerable imperfection
for whoever aspires to the most arduous achievement,
to the supreme compromise with the fire in the beyond
and the surprise, sacred and full of rejoicing between
the fresh flames,
a compromise, then,
with the truth of the highest form of living,
and so the dancer of flamenco
remained for this reason without moving
in a difficult equilibrium
to see if that position, without touching it,
in not moving any of the pièces,
without turning a page, without causing the hinges to friction,
could by chance last, keep enduring there,
on the razor’s edge,
maintain itself on the head of a pin’s unlikely verticality,
balance itself on tip-toes, without breathing, each instant
succeeding the other,
on the verge of the abysm itself,
earth and boulders coming loose,
and one after another in succession, and in succession…
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Aye, what a revolution in red and orange against the
venom of society and culture
With the flowers of right palm though a gesture of dance
in fact covers her tears
A story of blue tension and deep emotion in red flamenco
so flamboyantly executes the dancer
The crimson movement of the lyrical arms and torso
in sync with the guitar is awesome
Unique euphoria of exuberance in the swirl of a female figure
so provocative
What a dancing dream doing up the drawings of
the body on the fly
What a message of moons in mounds you convey
through the crafty curves
And each passing passion pulsates from prose to
poetry of muscles and bones
Eros encouraging us to transcend ourselves through
the journey of desire like a fountain
From brownish black towards the orange flames
on the comely conical mountains
And the warmly amber valley as it mingles with the
flames from the dancing spark
Blackens darkens and then harkens at joyous response
of mesmerized connoisseurs
Deepens the dense dance still further by generating
romantic proposition in her gestures
Unstoppable time hypnotized to stop for a moment to
stand and see how infinity can dance
Time itself in much ado on the long neck of
reddening movement
Aye, you dancing fire spreading your oranges everywhere
from Andalusia to Madrid
And then all over the globe amazing you me and all
in modern style of elegant gestures
Sliding the shoulder blades down the back and thus
the chest held proudly
Inviting inquisitive attention to read the poems
up to the chin and down the tall back
Closing the eye for a few seconds we see in awe our fertile
dear earth in a dance of rebellion
The earthy and raw in a fascinating gesture of life
we do need to feel so much
That while in the midst of viewing what you interpret
we too get merged in the dancing colour
Aha! What a phenomenon
____________________________________________________
September 23, 2017
For the contest:Poems that paint a picture 3
Hosted by: Silent One
There is a place so beautiful I'd love to see again.
My dream vacation started in Madrid, in central Spain.
How I long to stroll again down by Retiro Lake
and see El Prado art museum. Then for old time's sake,
I'd find some iced “horchata” down by Alcala Gate,
and later see Flamenco at a bar where folks stay late.
Come tag along with me as I remember old Castile.
We'll bring potato omelets in french loaves for our meal.
In any one direction, heading north, east, south or west,
is something quite amazing for your senses to digest.
A cross upon a peak is near the great Escorial.
And Avila, by Romans built, is circled by a wall.
Segovia, Toledo, and further by the sea,
lies Valencia. That's a place I want to be!
Try the calamares (squid). I like it best when fried!
Oranges abound and the paella's bona fide.
In March , through all Valencia there is a grand display:
people burning giant statues made of papier mache.
Northward are the Pyrenees, rugged, vast and green,.
Sheep in fields, refreshing clime, and villages serene.
There's bustling Barcelona if we journey up the coast.
Farther west, along a bay in Galicia, I like most
a place named San Sebastian, a very lovely town.
It has some trees with tops like cute umbrellas upside down.
Last, to Don Quixote's Andalucia -south let's drive
where for centuries the moors' enlightenment could thrive.
Cordoba, Granada, and Seville we have to visit.
The mosques with marbled columns at Cordoba are exquisite.
Granada has a palace like none you've ever seen.
The ornate rooms and gardens were fair pleasures for a queen.
Malaga I never saw, but if ever I should go
back to Spain, that's a beach I really want to know.
So many different nations arrived on Spanish shores:
Greeks, Phoenicians, Visigoths, Carthaginians, Celts and Moors.
Iberia is fascinating. Its diversity
is so enchanting, it's the best vacation spot for me!
4/28/2015
Emotional tension fills the air...
Lights and laughter everywhere
A fiesta audience waits eagerly for a night of passion.
The dance of Spain and a sensual dancer
The Andalusian Gypsy dancer
El baile flamenco tonight…Ole!
The guitarist enters…masterfully
Displaying his unique musical talent.
His music controls the dance
Finally, bailaoras, the great Camille, enters
More than beautiful, she exudes sexuality
Dramatically, her aura intrigues and mystifies
The Flamenco, some say, is animalistic
Elegant movements of the flamingo birds
So, much like the dancer's stance…
Camille points her gold slipper like a prima ballerina
Music begins--- she does not move…poised as a statue
The audience sits on the edges of their seats.
Motionless, no expression in the start
When she feels the rhythm, she responds
Camille claps loudly, steadily
As her emotions build, she begins…
Her back, arched and dignified
Arms elegant and poised
The flamenco begins torridly
Gracefully but fiercely, Camille stomps---
Golden shoes with their percussion sounds
Bedazzling her admirers,
No one knows where the dance will go…
That is part of the beauty of the flamenco
Her passionate moves romance or comfort her admirers
Thus, the greatest joy of flamenco dancing
Climatically building as a heroine in a play
Camille has no equal…
Astutely, the castanets click in her hands…
The difficulty of the dance emerges…
Hands and feet working not in synchronicity
But against each other
Her mother taught her well…
The dancer is the accompanist, moving her body
To the flying fingers of the guitarist.
Ultimately, the music ebbs away
Camile picks up her fan and looks at the guitarist
Both dancer and musician are spent...
Audience stands up, cheering and clapping.
This is the spice of life in Spain!
She is a perfectly crafted portrait
The canvas nuisance of her skin
The collected sense of sensualness
In every lines convergence of her curving
And as the sun played with its fingers
Through the shadow dancing of the trees
Her feet upon their high heels
Staccato castanets upon the pavements
Waltzing with the loveliness
Of her flamenco with the breeze
So many eyes were lifted from the aged sighs of coffee cups
This passing reminder of admiration
Watching the floating calico
That hung within their vision
And so many men were left to wonder
On the naked sanctuary
Of this woman
The taste she could bequeath
With the succulent whisper of her lips
And the shuddering sigh she would utter
As they lay there
Between her legs
Like unrepentant diamond
With all the promise of a snow flake
This fantasy as she passed them
Gave no clue to the preparation
And of her made up person
She gave no hint
She was hidden behind the brushwork
The portraiture powder, gloss and tint
And the presence of her kisses
Were wiped away in the colour of her lipstick
No one saw the tiny woman
Wishing she knew how to be
More than this, the fashionable enhancements
Of her eyes, her legs, her hair and breasts
No one knew the pattern of the slave trade
Sown with iron into the lining
Of her dress
And no one heard the weeping woman
As her soul went slowly gliding by
And no one knew how she was asking them
For an answer to the question
Am I anyone
Am I nothing more
Than this
Still, she was held in the curse of beauty
Turning everything she is into property
To be nothing more than a trophy
Pinned to the wall of the wealthiest
No one could hear the silence
Or see the sadness in the mirror of her eyes
And no one paid attention to the stitches
Running through the weaving of her canvas
She's my omego, yeah I'm talking about (Linda) p,d
Don't you know?, I always love reading your poetry
Ok we have never met and we just converse online
But when on the net, I get a glimpse of you in rhyhm
I love your every metaphor, you give good insight
You take me on a magical tore with your every write
You give a good introspection of the time and space
You have such a wide selection, I can't keep up pace
And I often wonder what it's like where you are, my omego?
I've always love'd the Spanish guitar, the sound of flamenco
I get this picture of a gorgeous dancer and there you are
What is it like in Texas?, I've heard of the k,k and I think utar
I bet I'm way off base but I was never that good at geography
Perhaps It's a different place?, I'm always thinking of a movie
Like that one with the actor Antonio bandaross, desperado
With that famous line, what is it they say?, odious omego
I've forgotten the desert and the beach, those beautiful sands
I'm sounding like a right flurt, but think your one who understands
l often think how you are, you never shut down, you just rebute
You keep going and, oh by the way I love your avatar, very cute
And what can I say I love your varied subject matter my friend
I think of you as one with true charater, who can comprehend
Reading your every poem lifts my spirits whenever I'm on a low
My face glowin, if it's only a few minites, I'm touched my omego!
Grarcess.........X
This poem inspierd by a lot of poets on the soup this one by linda
pd the destroyer ,THIS IS A TRIBUTE TO LINDA (PD) THANK YOU
xDavidScott And your metaphores inspierd me on my recent writes
Broken,thoughts and feelings, now and then, sights and sounds
endure, dasjavu, and of course rewrite love is rare
look forward to reding more
of your work X d,s
WINDOW SEAT
Sitting beside him in the window seat as they
taxied for take-off at the end of the day, she was
nubile and pretty, as young as his daughter, nearly
perfect in the way of a late-autumn sunset distributing
itself over olive-brown skin, coffee-colored eyes, an
unmistakable aura of the concept of duende that interpreted
the mysteries of twilight and flight and the challenges of
life through the lyrical cadences of Andalucia,
Castilla-La Mancha, and Castilla-Leon
He remembered the first time that his
beautiful wife, the renegade rose in a botanical garden,
kept company with him on a visit to Spain:
She was apprehensive on the plane, excited in Madrid,
underneath him in Sevilla; she misbehaved in Barcelona,
and was full of questions in Granada that he answered in
Toledo while she replaced her scarlet lipstick standing
naked in the mirror
Philadelphia to Madrid takes six-and-a-half hours
at six-hundred miles per hour, the big Airbus jetliner navigating
the darkness beneath the fingernail crescent of a waxing
harvest moon, yet its running lights flashing and its reassuring
roar, were simply dissipating signatures like the fragrances and
curves of the sleeping girl beside him, swallowed along the
route by altitude and distance, by the perpetual fluctuations
of the unruly sea below, by the unexpected pleasures
of a marriage that really matters – like with that red rose
renegade who’s often naked in the mirror, always present
in their bed, and every day a guiding essence for
his aging, restless soul!
Duende (Spanish): (1) in flamenco - a spiritual or emotional
bond between performer and audience created by the performer’s
intense concentration and passion; (2) in general – authenticity of
emotion and expression – soul!
THE DANCER AND THE POET (Satis Shroff)
There she is a blonde Flamenco dancer,
From a family that was long dysfunctional.
The poet said: ‘Dance, my dear to the rhythm
Of the guitar and my lyrics.’
She pushes her feet to perform the fiery rhythms,
She dances in a trance,
Like a shaman in a séance.
By working them out
Till she’s exhausted after each dance.
Her praises her in his verses,
Suddenly he lets her fall down.
This makes her doubt;
Melancholy creeps into her heart.
She thinks: ‘When we came together
It was like a blitz,
That touched my heart.
You brought me fire like Prometheus,
Kindled it within me.
Ah, love when we’re together
We come out of our shells
And enter each other.’
* * *
Our love is like a flower with feelings
It needs to be cared for,
It needs the sun so that the perfume
Can unfold itself.
Your hatred is a contagious fire,
Like darkness which douses the fire within me.
I feel the ecstasy and love dying.
Alas, the magic of amour has disappeared;
Leaving behind only a faint hope.
* * *
I gave you my love,
You gave me your poesie,
Written in love’s flaming script.
You gave me light but also darkness.
Your kiss stirred my soul;
My heart began to sing
Your body promised me secrets and delicious hours
I’d never known.
During the day I walked
Like in a dream with opiate senses.
* * *
‘I crouched below your window
Till your new lover stealthily went away.
I howled to the skies in vain.
How could such an immortal love pass away?
The vicissitudes of our relationship led me to a decision:
I saw the Mephisto unveiled in you,
I have no desire to follow you to Hell.
Adieu, my veiled friend and tormentor.
(c)satisshroff,2017
* * *