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 of her heels amplified by the hollow stage.

We hold our breath as she stamps one, two, one two,

Arches her arms once again,

Dropping the hem over the eloquence of her ankles,

To stand like a statue, mask held in place, 

Accepting our tumultuous applause. 

© Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved