Written in Spain, after witnessing genuine Flamenco dancing. I am passionate about music and dancing and it was truly inspiring! **(Re-written as prose)**
Flamenco!
Spanish fire. Are there words to describe it? Words that can capture
the eruption of molten movement, musical lava that burns a pathway of
passion. If there are words, they are hard to find. But I will try,
even though I know my words, as fiery as they may seem, are cold.
Tasteless ice that melts in the heatwave of memories of the night they
danced...
We crowd into the room and hastily find seats among the rest of the
eager observers. I scan the room, taking in each face as I settle down,
captivated by the humming, agitated atmosphere. From the dark, marbled
with a haze of ruby light, a solitary wisp of sound winds through the
muttering of the crowd. My eyes focus on the stage and I can just make
out a man, hunched over his guitar. His agile fingers stepping out with
ease over ruts and strings. The guitar sings a sensuous story in
mellifluous tones. The wooden instrument seems alive in his arms and
purrs like a sleek, tawny cat under his touch. Musicians float onto the
stage, merging with the strange light like wraiths. An intensity creeps
into the melody and a woman’s voice begins its mournful song. She
speaks of deep emotion. It is in her face, her expressions and its
reflections echo in the bodies of her musicians. Her voice is husky,
drenched in colours, rich in meaning. She sings to the soul. Eyes
closed... she tells us of sadness, love, pain and moods without names
that can only be felt, not described. Heart-wrenching. Tears come
without warning. I know her story. We all do.
Suddenly a spotlight opens its white eye and glares down, center stage.
Two figures, a man and a woman, stroll forward. They are starkly lit so
that the curves and angles of their statuesque postures are
accentuated. They boast features that are hard and magnificent, like
wrought iron. She casts a nonchalant glance in our direction, but their
focus is truly on each other, we are just unworthy guests. Guitars hum
a change if tune which sends my heart racing. An intricate rhythm from
the drum and the dancers begin to circle each other like wild animals.
Eyes like chips of onyx, locked in each other’s glinting stares. The
man voices his challenge with his first arrogant steps. The woman
watches and returns with an equal display. Capriciously they play, back
and forth. Flirting... fighting!! Some moments in unison, some in
conflict but always an ardent atmosphere. When their gazes lift, they
penetrate the audience with furious glares. Daring us to look away,
demanding our open-mouthed appreciation. Holding us captive in their
eyes until we are overcome... then back to the dance. Heels drumming
the wood. Hands circling, fingers fan-spread. The sweat is shining on
their faces and chests are heaving, theirs and ours! The hot excitement
swells, escalates and explodes! The frenzied music and bodies are whirl
winded into an awesome storm of raw power. It is breathtaking. It is
terrifyingly magical.
This is Spain. No pretenses or glitter. No costumes for the masses.
This is the Spanish fire in its most vicious, poignant form. An animal,
not tamed by music, but set free by it. They tell their story and we
are captivated by it. Flamenco is in their blood, they are the spirit
of the gypsies. There is a crash of lightning sound... and it is done.
They bow and strut off stage, proud to the last step.
The yellow lights flicker on...
Eyes glazed, I look around, trying to drag my imagination back under
control, but I can still see the dance in my mind. I know that no
words, no matter how they scorch this page or smoulder in their cage of
lines and sentences, can describe the experience of true Flamenco. The
gypsy flame that burned so brightly that night.|
Written by gutterkitty (362 comments posted) 16th October 2007 | | I think this piece would work much better as piece of prose. I like the first stanza, it really hooked me in, and as with "Tiger-eyes" your descriptions are very effective in producing an image in the mind. | Duende!
Written by Bottleblondesurfer (3362 comments posted) 16th October 2007 | I believ they call it Duende the spirit of Flamenco. It isn't supposed to be something you can capture.You have it or you don't. I think you have come pretty close to describing it [I'm not sure a Spaniard would agree] but close enough for me. I remember seeing a tableau in Grenada and being captivated by it,too. It was a very vivid and enthusiastic piece of writing but a little restrainded and I think it is,as GK has pointed out, because you have tried to force it into the confines of poetry. I too think it would be a better and more free piece as prose where all you had to think about was capturing the spirit
cheers
Jane |
Written by Phil (6730 comments posted) 16th October 2007 | Effective bit of writing, it does seem to capture the spirit of the dance. (Although, I've never seen it.)
As above, I too think this could have been more effective as prose. You'd have had less restraints. Perhaps, as poetry, it's not distilled enough.
Phil. |
Written by Zeinah (2 comments posted) 17th October 2007 | Thanks for the comments  I never thought of writing it as a piece of prose but I read it through after those suggestions and I can see what you mean. It would be more free and flowing. |
Written by Asferthecat (834 comments posted) 18th October 2007 | | Yes, it works very well as prose. I could visualise the excitement of the evening. |
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