Flamenco
I spent my last holiday trying to capture information for Phil's memoir, and so somehow lost the inspiration to write poetry. But the memories are still clear enough to put that right, now I've had a chance to put the memoir part of my OU course to bed, and before I start on the next block of work: thank goodness we're returning to poetry! She stands tall, motionless, Back arched like a strung bow, Arms held high above her taut, slicked bun, Face a proud mask. We breathe the same solidified air Holding ourselves still, waiting. First, fingers uncurl, Spread into the shape of desire, Fix in place as her right arm sweeps To lift the ruffles of her dress Above her knees. To the strings of the guitar And the wail of the singer, She stamps her foot, once, twice, Then takes up the rhythm of the song, Each step telling her story, Each twirl across the stage Beating out the tragedy of their words. As the climax nears Her feet become a blur of motion, The roar...