The drama and thunder of it—
trance-like
when the notes sing sadly,
seem to pluck themselves
from weeping fingers,
when the wails of passion
get inside the hips,
become the bend of wrists,
the fistful of ruffles—
how unapologetic
the stomps are,
the throbs
of a furious pulse,
the exactitude of hands
that don´t stop clapping
until the blood reaches
its final fevered pitch:
a pose of breathlessness,
a sculpture gasping
with life.
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I couldn’t believe no one had commented on this little gem before now. I lived in Sevilla for four months, and I LOVED going to the “flamenco bar with the red door.” I loved the no-name bar, and the authentic Spanish passion that went into the clapping and stomping. Especially after I took dancing lessons myself while I was there!