One of many side trips……

The Taverna di Muse is lovely tonight, warm and redolent with the spicy smells of delicious and exotic foods…the music plays, transporting me to other places, other times, and I rise to my feet. I begin to dance, inhabited by the spirit of flamenco. The crooner sees me, and begins to sing a song, a flamenco-poem, in Spanish. I move through the taverna as moonlight moves on water, swaying and flowing with grace.  I end the piece with head bowed, one hand high in the air, as the crowd of artists, writers, and musicians applaud and whistle.



A Conchita García Lorca

La luna vino a la fragua
con su polisón de nardos.
El niño la mira, mira.
El niño la está mirando.

En el aire conmovido
mueve la luna sus brazos
y enseña, lúbrica y pura,
sus senos de duro estaño.

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.

Niño, déjame que baile.
Cuando vengan los gitanos,
te encontrarán sobre el yunque
con los ojillos cerrados.

Huye luna, luna, luna,
que ya siento sus caballos.

Niño, déjame, no pises
mi blancor almidonado.

El jinete se acercaba
tocando el tambor
del llano.
Dentro de la fragua el niño,
tiene los ojos cerrados.

Por el olivar venían,
bronce y sueño, los gitanos.
Las cabezas levantadas
y los ojos entornados.

Cómo canta la zumaya,
¡ay, cómo canta en el árbol!
Por el cielo va la luna
con un niño de la mano.

Dentro de la fragua lloran,
dando gritos, los gitanos.
El aire la vela, vela.
El aire la está velando.


Song of the Moon, Moon
   to Conchita García Lorca

The moon came to the forge
with her bustle of nards.
The boy watches the sight.
The boy is watching her.

In the trembling air
the moon moves her arm
and lewd and pure shows
her breasts of hard tin.

“Run Moon, Moon, Moon.
If the gypsies came
they would twist your heart
into chains and rings of white.”

“Boy, let me dance.
When the gypsies come,
they’ll find you on the anvil,
fast asleep.”

“Run Moon, Moon, Moon,
because I hear their horses now.”
“Boy, leave my whiteness

The rider approached
tapping his tamborine.
Inside the forge was the boy,
with his eyes closed.

Through the olive grove they came,
all bronze and dreams, the gypsies.
Their heads lifted up,
their eyes half-shut.

“How the owl sings, Ay!
how the tawny owl sings in the tree!”
Through the sky the moon takes
the boy by the hand.

Inside the forge, the gypsies
cry and give shouts.
The wind guards, it guards.
The wind is guarding it.


Federico Garcia Lorca