Bodies strewn
all about,
the echoes
of bossa nova.
© Chagall 2015
Tag Archive: Dance
She panicked and said that the mix was too dry
I could tell she’d not worked many doughs
© Chagall 2014
Catch the upbeat
with a shoulder shrug,
more subtle than hips.
Convey as much
with a nod.
Start off deeper and slower
when you thrust, and hold the finish
make it go all the way, tap the hilt
if you get my point, feel the lust
along the long line you’ll hold.
And I’m not kidding!
Absolutely motionless
till the follow-spots fade
plus a beat
© Chagall 2014
The smell of juniper and quinine
cocktails decompose
over time I believe
in blackthorn sloe
iced rims and peels
at precise times
perfect blend
with just enough tilt
to justify everyday
long and low I go
around high-heeled
a pucker and a tart
on the edge
frayed by longing
tickled by tassels
a halted sneeze
anticipates blessing
that never comes
see me
dance down the pole
in your void
savagely horned
good heat
but little smoke
© Chagall 2014
You once danced in perfect dark,
with no eye to discern the grace of form,
nothing shone on passion for Terpsichore,
your body yearned, stark figure on ground, unseen aloft
in space for no one but you, in wait to unveil the inward glow,
before the birth of sight and no one was, there was promenade and cabriole.
© Chagall 2013
The light’s as important
as the words
can make it all
timeless
outside
every pulse
forever
in an instant
the very first
and only kisses
spliced all
together
lost
on a reel.
© Chagall 2013
The bandleader said
we don’t play no cha-cha here
how about a waltz?
© Chagall, 2013
She said her name was Dominga Samba,
a Castilian, her family went way back,
the sixth century, Kingdom of León,
after the Romans, the time of the Moors.
She spoke this lispy, crazy Portuguese,
sprinkled with what she called Mozarabic.
I mainly listened to her eyes and lips,
and the tight geometry of her curves.
She danced to pachanga like a Cuban,
Galician spirits moved her, she swooned,
head thrown back, knees akimbo, she’d mambo,
son montuno, like the natives used to.
She’d rise, make love astride like a goddess,
hypnotic, offbeat lunges, then circles,
lightly, hovering, just barely touching,
interlocked rhythms, deep and full glides home.
She was rapping time on my cencerro,
would have made Arsenio Rodriquez proud.
I think of her now almost every night,
she has since moved back to Salamanca.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You are very pretty,
dancing there,
while I’m dancing here;
we should be dancing
together.
I’m going to work my way in close
to touch, eyelash to fluttering
eyelash, a breath
on your cheek, so light,
like a fleeting glance, without breaking
stride from a glide.
Sweep you slowly,
oh, to kiss you deeply
across the floor, again
once more.
Whirl-twirl you
like hurricanes hitting
land with the beat of the band.
That’s the way we dance –
sabado –
that’s the way
the nights flow.
Hold your count,
I’ll meet you where you are,
when you turn, lock-
step, step spry.
Eye-to-eye.
Funny how these things can go,
sly sambas.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sands are cooler this time of day,
evening shore’s spongy underfoot,
refreshes the soles on up.
My towel skirts me,
hula at the waist, a tuck-knot,
long, cool cotton sways,
massages me, naked thighs.
I buy a coco-rum-nut at the hut,
torches burn, leave a larger than usual tip,
fly chica behind the bar
rewards me with a double-floater-shot in return.
Salt air leaves me heady, nostalgic,
for some primal scene,
saline roots, when hot springs sprang,
before speech found its way to our tongues.
Duet up the beach plays Jobim,
he, nylon acoustic
she, silky throat and lovely neck.
Samba for lovers,
smell of herb
from under umbrellas.
The rum is good,
arouses my caramel,
makes me thicker,
I glide, boogie board on bare feet.
After the verse, at the coro,
I step toe to heel, to toe to heel,
dancing like no one’s watching,
’cause no one is.
My ears pop suddenly,
the rush of knee-high waves
swooshes crisp, tens of decibels louder,
foam about me touches my towel hem.
I am doubly alive, in overdrive,
oxygen never smelled so good,
clean, sweet, perfect pleasure,
just breathing in, keep breathing in . . .
Back at the hut, I double-up rum-nuts,
bum a cigarette from the fly chica,
who lights me up and smiles.
I do a paso dobla,
in a rum numb,
up and down the beach,
dancing, someone’s watching.
Queres dançar comigo?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 