Duendeor Ananda?
(for Garcia Lorca)
The man sits on the edge of the chair,
head down, eyes shut, hands still.
The flamenco guitar strums forlornly.
The head lifts, the voice rises straight
upwards, sharp as a sword, the cry shreds
the air to pieces.
I watch the gitano battling with his Duende,
journeying deep into soul’s suffering.
This, Lorca, is art to you, the passion for death,
a scar essential to healing.
Anguish perfects art. A courtship with death,
the humming bird suspended in mid air,
fluttering for yet another breath of the scent.
Never enough, your Duende.
I see another man. He sits on the floor, his
legs crossed to make a still posture. The even
sounds of the instrument create a backdrop,
the voice begins to probe the cosmic depths.
There are no mysteries here, only labyrinths
of creation, of the meaning of life,
not anguish for extinction. This is Ananda, Lorca,
art of another sort, a dissolution with the divine.
