Tag Archive: Samba


Almost Went Untitled

On a carpet of flower petals
I lie eyeing the sun. Tap
those receptors there,
prod me to yearn for forever
or another vast place where I sense
my being is once removed.

My sunlit face not a fleeting echo.

Her smile across the handlebars
with my heart there in the basket.

I watch her pedal away. Somewhere
there are sambas playing.

© Chagall 2016

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Why, can’t you hear it?
I’m pulsing with the music.
Why can’t you? Hear it.

© Chagall 2015

Low Clouds Tonight

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Old friends, sad hearts,
new ways and fresh starts,
seems the elements we lack
are starless nights and indigo,
blinking lights way up there,
people come then they go on-time,
reclined in seats, half-moon-bound flights,
wane gentle, then more, until no more.

I drink pekoe at night in the back;
in my cup I watch planets swirl.

© Chagall 2014

She’ll Wave

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I wrote a song just for her
about the sand and sea

I played it
and she swam away

© Chagall 2014

When We Were Kings

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imagine a nuyorican
sunny wednesday morning
columbian latte in hand
visiting chloe and her mom
brazilians from the tribe chamacoco
essentially paraguayans
propped on a rail on a screened-in porch
watching while outside two crews of three
build a wall
and mow a lawn
it’s hard to tell if they are
mexicans – maybe aztecans –
or nay. . . of course they are mayans!

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Dominga Samba

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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

Sábado Samba

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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

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A slow dance,
Friday night,
hands on hands,
thigh to thigh,
shadow me,
as I slide,
to the left,
stutter-step,
reverse right,
you got it,
feel the beat,
hold the sway,
rock the hips,
shoulder pops,
small circles,
tight rhythm,
subtle rhyme,
you whisper,
Portuguese
in my ear,
in our veins,
on the floor.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Beachworthy

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

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