the odor of death
I discern the odor of death
in front of my body
–Ojibwa Song
Blindness
Morning darkness, evening darkness
Always, always.
—Dogon Praise-Motto
All that has dark sounds has duende.
–Manuel Torre
Fernanda de Utrera & Diego del Gastor – Buerias
“Those dark sounds are the mystery, the roots that cling to the mire that we all know, that we all ignore, but from which comes the very substance of art. ‘Dark sounds’ said the man of the Spanish people, agreeing with Goethe, who in speaking of Paganini hit on a definition of the duende: ‘A mysterious force that everyone feels and no philosopher has explained.’” (Lorca)
Federico García Lorca tried anyway, in a famous lecture given in Buenos Aires in 1933: Play and Theory of the Duende (from which all Lorca quotes in this piece are taken). I use it here as a jumping-off point for my own exploration of the force, the sensation that is duende.
I’ve traveled with the duende–much like Robert Johnson’s hellhound–on my trail long enough to know that it’ll get you anywhere. Now naturally some places make for more fertile ground than others. You’re more likely to be seized by it in New Orleans than Denver. Germany & Sweden spend the better part of the day trying to sweep it off the streets, while it walks freely in the alleys of Egypt & Mexico. And the duende resists domestication & refinement; there’s no cemetery that can hold him, but there are bars in this world that couldn’t wash him off if they tried.
Since the duende defies explanation, I’ve designed the following as a collage of works that best convey the duende as I have experienced it.
Sprinkled between the poems, songs, photos, paintings & clips below is commentary both from Lorca & myself, kept in italics to distinguish it clearly from the texts.
Carsten Czarnecki
Benajarafe, Malaga, Spain
2025
Niña de los Peines – Seguiriya de Joaquin Lacherna
Deep Song
1
in the middle of the sea
a stone
my love was sitting on
to tell her troubles:
only to the earth, oh only
to the earth I tell
what happened to me
nowhere in the world would find
someone to tell
but every morning
would go out
& ask the rosemary:
if love’s so bad
can there still be a cure
before I die from it?
2
I climbed the wall the wind
would answer me
“why all this sighing, sighing
“& no end to it
the wind would cry to me
on seeing
these long gashes in my heart
until I loved
the wind wind of a woman
as a woman is a wind
I stayed in
& was jealous of the wind
that brushed your face
if that wind was a man
I’d kill him
& not be afraid to row
but rowing, rowing
only the wind to frighten me
up from your harbor
Spanish Roma [Gypsy]
The Romani carried it with them for ages. Carried it in their bones. And when they came to Andalusia’s welcoming soil, mixed it with the local blood & out came deep song (cante jondo), the very marrow of flamenco.
What’s carried in the bones & blood retains its sound forever.
Call it bone music, blood music.
Death Song
In the great night my heart will go out
Toward me the darkness comes rattling
In the great night my heart will go out
Tohono O’odham [Papago] (Arizona)
A Peruvian Dance Song
Wake up, woman
Rise up, woman
In the middle of the street
A dog howls
May the death arrive
May the dance arrive
Comes the dance
You must dance
Comes the death
You can’t help it!
Ah! what a chill
Ah! what a wind
Ayacucho
Carmen Linares – Siguiriya de Silverio
The Mourning Song of Small–Lake–Underneath
I always compare you to a drifting log with iron nails in it.
Let my brother float in, in that way.
Let him float ashore on a good sandy beach.
I always compare you, my mother, to the sun passing behind the clouds.
That is what makes the world dark.
Tlingit (Alaska)
“All the arts are capable of duende, but where it naturally creates most space, as in music, dance and spoken poetry, the living flesh is needed to interpret them, since they have forms that are born and die, perpetually, and raise their contours above the precise present.” (Lorca)
from The Limits of Control (2009) – Jim Jarmusch
Flamenco is performed in the space between heart beats, in dark, hushed alleyways, when the air is charged with the threat of violence. The dancer’s movements swell up from the deep, guided by ghosts through the steps to a forgotten ritual, & so do the words, syllables stretched to near breaking points until every word sinks in deep.
from The Kojiki
All dressed up
—-In my jet-black clothes,
When I look down at my breast,
—-Like a bird of the sea,
Flapping its wings,
—-This garment will not do;
I throw it off
—-By the wave-swept beach.
All dressed up
—-In my blue clothes,
Blue like the kingfisher,
—-When I look down at my breast,
Like a bird of the sea,
—-Flapping its wings,
This garment will not do;
I throw it off
—-By the wave-swept beach.
All dressed up
—-In my clothes dyed
With the juice
—-Of pounded atane plants
—-Grown in the mountain fields,
Now when I look down at my breast,
—-Like a bird of the sea,
Flapping its wings,
—-This garment will do.
Beloved wife of mine,
When I go off
With my men
Flocking like flocking birds;
When I go off
With my men
Accompanied like birds of a company;
Although you may say
That you will not weep—
Your head drooping,
Like the lone reed of susuki grass
On the mountain side,
You will weep;
And your weeping will rise
Just as the morning rain
Rises into a mist.
O my young wife
Like the young grass!
These are
The words,
The words handed down.
Japanese
Ricardo & la Niña de los Peines – Pateneras – Cante Hondo
from The Elegy for the Great Inca Atawallpa
. . . You all by yourself fulfilled
—-Their malignant demands,
But your life was snuffed out
—-In Cajamarca.
Already the blood has curdled
—-In your veins,
And under your eyelids your sight
—-Has withered.
Your glance is hiding in the brilliance
—-Of some star.
Only your dove suffers and moans
—-And drifts here and there.
Lost in sorrow, she weeps, who had her nest
—-In your heart.
The heart, with the pain of this catastrophe,
—–Shatters.
They have robbed you of your golden litter
—-And your palace.
All of your treasures which they have found
—-They have divided among them.
Condemned to perpetual suffering,
—-And brought to ruin,
Muttering, with thoughts that are elusive
—-And far away from this world,
Finding ourselves without refuge or help,
—-We are weeping,
And not knowing to whom we can turn our eyes,
—-We are lost.
Oh sovereign king,
—-Will your heart permit us
To live scattered, far from each other,
—-Drifting here and there,
Subject to an alien power,
—-Trodden upon?
Discover to us your eyes which can wound
—-Like a noble arrow;
Extend to us your hand which grants
—-More than we ask,
And when we are comforted with this blessing
—-Tell us to depart.
Quechua
Manuel de los Santos Pastor (Manuel Agujetas) – Cante Jondo
The Abortion
1
East, west, north, south
Tell me in which river
We shall put away the child
With rotting thatch below it
And jungly silk above
We will have it put away
You at the lower steps
I at the upper
We will wash & go to our homes
You by the lower path
I by the upper
We will go to our homes
2
O my love
My mind has broken
For the spring has ceased its flow
In the gully by the plantain
Drink cups of medicine
Swallow down some pills
Like a black cow
That has never had a calf
You will again be neat & trim
3
Like a bone
Was the first child born
And the white ants have eaten it
O my love, do not weep
Do not mourn
We two are here
And the white ants have eaten it
4
The field has not been ploughed
The field is full of sand
Little grandson
Why do you linger?
From a still unmarried girl
A two-months child has slipped
And that is why they stare
5
You by the village street
I by the track in the garden
We will take the child away
To the right is a bent tree
To the left is a stump
O my love
We will bury it between them
6
In the unploughed rice field, elder brother
What birds are hovering?
At midnight, the headman’s middle daughter
Has taken it away
They are tearing the after-birth to pieces
Santhal (India)
“So, then, the duende is a force not a labour, a struggle not a thought. […] Meaning, it’s not a question of skill, but of a style that’s truly alive: meaning, it’s in the veins: meaning, it’s of the most ancient culture of immediate creation.” (Lorca)
Manuel de los Santos Pastor (Manuel Agujetas) – Seguiriyas
from The Praises of the Falls
The Fame of the Lamp
—-O mother elephant
—-O mother elephant, I’m going blind
—-O mother elephant, I came here in secret
—-O mother elephant, their road was red
—-O mother elephant, there was blood & disorder
—-O mother elephant, who shakes her ear
—-O running elephant
The Fame of the Creepers
—-This is the big creeper
—-whose leaves have fallen
—-We warm ourselves
—-at its embers
—-We use it again
—-You are light
—-the lamp
—-which says:
—-make light for us
—-poor people
The Lamp of the Seers
—-The angry man
—-fights with his mother-in-law
—-What was the good of those lamps?
—-Seeing wonders
—-every morning
—-your sins passed by
—-& you saw them
—-& saw the child of a cow
—-& of a human being
—-saw them, could tell them
—-apart
—-from the entrails
Basuto
from Beau Travail (1999) – Claire Denis
from How Isaac Tens Became a Shaman
FIRST SONG
Death of the salmon,
my death
but the city
finds life in it
the salmon floats
in the canyon
ghosts in the city
below me
this robin, the
woman I fly with
SECOND SONG
in mud to my knees,
a lake
where the shellfish
holds me, is
cutting my ankles,
in sleep
THIRD SONG
a boat, a stranger’s
boat, a canoe
& myself inside it, a
stranger inside it
it floats past trees,
past water
runs among
whirlpools
FOURTH SONG
& vision: beehives
were stinging my body
or the ghosts of bees,
giants
& the old woman
working me
until I grew hurt me
in dreams, in my head
Gitxsan (British Columbia)
A Quechua Poem
I’m bringing up a fly
—-with golden wings
—-bringing up a fly
—-with eyes burning
it carries death
—-in its eyes of fire
carries death
—-in its golden hair
—-in its gorgeous wings
in a green bottle
—-I’m bringing it up
—-nobody knows
—-if it drinks
—-nobody knows
—-if it eats
at night it goes wandering
—-like a star
—-wounding to death
—-with red rays
—-from its eyes of fire
it carries love
—-in its eyes of fire
—-flashes in the night
—-its blood
—-the love it bears in its breast
insect of night
fly bearing death
in a green bottle
I’m bringing it up
—-I love it
—-that much
but nobody
—-no
nobody knows
if I give it to drink
nobody knows if I feed it
Quechua
Ghosts & Shadows
Ghosts in this forest, shadows
thrown back by the night
Or in daylight
like bats that drink from our veins
& hang from moist walls, in deep caves
Behind this green moss, these awful white stones
We pray to know who has seen them
Shadows thrown back by the night
We pray to know who has seen them
Baka [Gabon Pygmy]
The duende is about getting low. About getting close to the earth, to the blood.
I saw a beggar dragging himself down an alley in Malaga, his face like a wooden ritual mask worn out from rough use. The song he raised up seemed to come straight out of the earth. He sang of the death of some brother—his brother, my brother, no matter… His voice trembled with the weight of the dead.
Duende is the music of death, sung in the living fever-pitch of transformation.
Black Gods in Exile – Sanga, Burkina Faso (1936) – Pierre Verger
Death Rites II
The animal runs, it passes, it dies. And it is the great cold.
It is the great cold of the night, it is the dark.
The bird flies, it passes, it dies. And it is the great cold.
It is the great cold of the night, it is the dark.
The fish flees, it passes, it dies. And it is the great cold.
It is the great cold of the night, it is the dark.
Man eats and sleeps. He dies. And it is the great cold.
It is the great cold of the night, it is the dark.
There is light in the sky, the eyes are extinguished, the star shines.
The cold is below, the light is on high.
The man has passed, the shade has vanished, the prisoner is free!
Khvum, Khvum, come in answer to our call!
Baka [Gabon Pygmy]
Blind Willie Johnson – Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground
from Truck Turner (1974) – Jonathan Kaplan
Flower World: Poem from the Yaqui Deer Dance
SONG OF A DEAD MAN
I do not want these flowers
—-moving
———but the flowers
want to move
—-I do not want these flowers
——–moving
but the flowers
—-want to move
——–I do not want these flowers
moving
—-but the flowers
——–want to move
out in the flower world
—-the dawn
——–over a road of flowers
I do not want these flowers
moving
—-but the flowers
———want to move
I do not want these flowers
—-moving
but the flowers
—–the flowers
———want to move
Yaqui
Yaqui Deer Dance
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/xpa84
Valentin de las Sierras (1971) – Bruce Baillie
from The Kumulipo: Night Births
4
Fear falls upon me on the mountain top
Fear of the passing night
Fear of the night approaching
Fear of the pregnant night
Fear of the breach of the law
Dread of the place of offering and the narrow trail
Dread of the food and the waste part remaining
Dread of the receding night
Awe of the night approaching
Awe of the dog child of the Night-creeping-away
A dog child of the Night-creeping-hither
A dark red dog, a brindled dog
A hairless dog of the hairless ones
A dog as an offering for the oven
Palatable is the sacrifice for supplication
Pitiful in the cold without covering
Pitiful in the heat without a garment
He goes naked on the way to Malama
Where the night ends for the children of night
From the growth and the parching
From the cutting off and the quiet
The driving Hula wind his companion
Younger brother of the naked ones, the ’Olohe
Out from the slime come rootlets
Out from the slime comes young growth
Out from the slime come branching leaves
Out from the slime comes outgrowth
Born in the time when men came from afar
—-Still it is night
Hawai‘ian (Polynesia)
Ogham Poem from Inchmarnock
1/ Having Reached the Holy Reward
Her body fades with her hair becomes invisible her skin is a salmon.
Singing eye sings her songs together kine alpine kine grazing.
Guarded life is guarded shielded ringed with soldiers.
South from our slit ribs bees swarm north.
Now is elsewhere jealousy did this.
Thieves clean her breasts.
A bower is constructed high in the thorn.
Three fires jealousy love and death maggot us.
Under no place there are no trees there is no place.
Pulse great throbbing blooded heart harts live in her irises.
Scottish Gaelic
The Story of the Leopard Tortoise
The people had gone hunting: she was ill; and she perceived a man who
came up to her hut; he had been hunting around.
She asked the man to rub her neck a little with fat for her; for, it ached.
The man rubbed it with fat for her. And she altogether held the man
firmly with it. The man’s hands altogether decayed away in it.
Again, she espied another man, who came hunting. And she also spoke,
she said: “Rub me with fat a little.”
And the man whose hands had decayed away in her neck, he was hid-
ing his hands, so that the other man should not perceive them, namely,
that they had decayed away in it. And he said: “Yes, O my mate! rub our
elder sister a little with fat; for, the moon has been cut, while our elder
sister lies ill. Thou shalt also rub our elder sister with fat.” He was hiding
his hands, so that the other one should not perceive them.
The Leopard Tortoise said: “Rubbing with fat, put thy hands into my
neck.” And he, rubbing with fat, put in his hands upon the Leopard Tor-
toise’s neck; and the Leopard Tortoise drew in her head upon her neck;
while his hands were altogether in her neck; and he dashed the Leopard
Tortoise upon the ground, on account of it; while he desired, he thought,
that he should, by dashing it upon the ground, break the Leopard Tor-
toise. And the Leopard Tortoise held him fast.
The other one had taken out his hands from behind his back; and he
exclaimed: “Feel thou that which I did also feel!” and he showed the
other one his hands; and the other one’s hands were altogether inside the
Leopard Tortoise’s neck. And he arose, he returned home. And the other
one was dashing the Leopard Tortoise upon the ground; while he return-
ing went; and he said that the other one also felt what he had felt. A
pleasant thing it was not, in which he had been! He yonder returning
went; he arrived at home.
The people exclaimed: “Where hast thou been?” And he, answering,
said that the Leopard Tortoise had been the one in whose neck his hands
had been; that was why he had not returned home. The people said: “Art
thou a fool? Did not thy parents instruct thee? The Leopard Tortoise
always seems as if she would die; while she is deceiving us.”
Saan [Bushman] (Africa)
Howlin’ Wolf – I Asked for Water (She Gave Me Gasoline)
Salvador, Bahia, Brazil (1950s) – Pierre Verger
Drum Poem #7
Oh Witch, don’t kill me, Witch
Please spare me, Witch
This Holy Drummer swears to you that
When he rises up some morning
He will sound his drums for you some morning
Very early
Very early
Very early
Very early
Oh Witch that kills our children very early
Oh Witch that kills our children very early
This Holy Drummer swears to you that
When he rises up some morning
He will sound his drums for you some morning
Very early
Very early
Very early
Very early
Hear me talking to you
Try and understand
Ashanti
Mantra for Binding a Witch
1
I bind the sharp end of a knife
I bind the glow-worm in the forehead
I bind the magic of nine hundred gurus
I bind the familiars of nine hundred witches
I bind the fairies of the sky
Let the sky turn upside down, let the earth be overturned, let horns grow
on horse and ass, let moustaches sprout on a young girl, let the dry cow-dung
sink and the stones float, but let this charm not fail
2
I bind the glow-worm of a virgin
I bind every kind of Massan
The nail of bone
The lamp of flesh
Who binds the spirits?
The guru binds and I the guru’s pupil
May the waters of the river flow uphill
May the dry cow-dung sink and stones float
But let my words not fail.
Baiga (India)
Otis Taylor – Black Witch
With the duende, life’s mysteries & ecstasies move right through the body. Where so much art charms & flatters, ruffles & bows, the duende gulps & chews, cuts, burns, shakes & rattles in a sweaty dance. It seizes you like a spirit possession; comes at you bold, with a smack of the lips, & the shudder it leaves you in is that of man in the first night of recognition—naked & alone in the wild, drunk with terror in the face of his god.
The reasonable man will balk at that terror & run from it. The man of duende goes chasing that high like one possessed, & won’t quit it even if it threatens to ruin him.
from Point Blank (1967) – John Boorman
Skip James – Hard Time Killing Floor Blues
The Old Guitarist (1904) – Pablo Picasso
Soussou Griot
from Gassire’s Lute
Nganamba did not die. A jackal gnawed at Gassire’s heart. Daily Gassire asked his heart: “When will Nganamba die? When will Gassire be king?” Every day Gassire watched for the death of his father as a lover watches for the evening star to rise. By day, when Gassire fought as a hero against the Burdama and drove the false Boroma before him with a leather girth, he thought only of the fighting, of his sword, of his shield, of his horse. By night, when he rode with the evening into the city and sat in the circle of men and his sons, Gassire heard how the heroes praised his deeds. But his heart was not in the talking; his heart listened for the strains of Nganamba’s breathing; his heart was full of misery and longing.
[…]
Gassire let the women bathe him. The men gathered. But Gassire did not seat himself in their circle. Gassire went into the fields. Gassire heard the partridges. Gassire went close to them. A partridge sat under a bush and sang: “Hear the Dausi! Hear my deeds!” The partridge sang of its battle with the snake. The partridge sang: “All creatures must die, be buried and rot. Kings and heroes die, are buried and rot. I, too, shall die, shall be buried and rot. But the Dausi, the song of my battles, shall not die. It shall be sung again and again and shall outlive all kings and heroes. Hoooh, that I might do such deeds! Hoooh, that I may sing the Dausi! Wagadu will be lost. But the Dausi shall endure and shall live!”
[…]
Gassire went to a smith. Gassire said: “Make me a lute.” The smith said: “I will, but the lute will not sing.” Gassire said: “Smith, do your work. The rest is my affair.” The smith made the lute. The smith brought the lute to Gassire. Gassire struck on the lute. The lute did not sing. Gassire said: “Look here, the lute does not sing.” The smith said: “That’s what I told you in the first place.” Gassire said: “Well, make it sing.” The smith said: “I cannot do anything more about it. The rest is your affair.” Gassire said: “What can I do, then?” The smith said: “This is a piece of wood. It cannot sing if it has no heart. You must give it a heart. Carry this piece of wood on your back when you go into battle. The wood must ring with the stroke of your sword. The wood must absorb down-dripping blood, blood of your blood, breath of your breath. Your pain must be its pain, your fame its fame. The wood may no longer be like the wood of a tree, but must be penetrated by and be a part of your people. Therefore it must live not only with you but with your sons. Then will the tone that comes from your heart echo in the ear of your son and live on in the people, and your son’s life’s blood, oozing out of his heart, will run down your body and live on in this piece of wood. But Wagadu will be lost because of it.” Gassire said: “Wagadu can go to blazes!”
Soninke
Ali Farka Touré – Savane
Blood River Shaman Chant
then grasped
my sky tree—- grasped it
all my friends
would bend their backs to me
they sprang up to their feet
then stretched me on their laps
“now I must harness the sky’s reindeer
“the smallest of the seven
“must hold the reindeer’s reins
cloud island sledge
shot off—- we found
the grass ridge
there at the ridge’s foot we found
a hill with lawns
bored through by seven lizards
who bored through it
“mother lizard—- grandmother
“give thou a child
“a child give to my friend
the lizard child—- my friend
bored through my side
we found the ice ridge then
& at its side
found a blood river
the blood river started flowing
its currents started flowing
in the currents the blood river
tufts of hair flowed by
for me to cut— to cut the river
with bare hands
would make the blood stop
the river & the current stop
until we crossed the river
& the blood— we found
the iron tent
I went into the iron tent
the seven women sat there
I embraced them—- seven women
swaddling seven boys
cloud island sledge
shot off—- again it took us
to our tent
“I must unhitch
“our spirit reindeer
“the smallest of the seven
“I must head back to camp
“my friends must head back
“of the seven let a single one remain
then they took back my sky tree
left me—- I have found no place
to camp but here
inside this fire I fall
to pieces
Nenets
Genesis: Northern Spaces (Nenets) – Sebastião Salgado
Robert Johnson – Hellhound on My Trail
(Here’s a long overdue terminology adjustment: let’s replace “primitive” with “rooted”, & “civilized” with “uprooted”.)
No one is more alive than he who lives with death. Rooted man has always known this & gives the gods of duende pride of place in the sacred order of things. Ritual acts, like skin carving & blood sacrifice, draw the raw energy of the god close to the flesh-&-stone realities on the ground. Praise songs & dances bring him closer still, until he takes possession of the head & moves through the body. For the head is home to the ancestral spirit & seat of the patron god. The Yoruba word for praise poetry is oriki, meaning praises to the head. So when a devotee is praising his god, he’s also praising his own divinity within, including the strange quirks, violent appetites & manias he shares with his god. He lives out his duende without an ounce of ego, deceit or judgment: as a praise song to existence in its glorious, down & dirty reality.
Meanwhile uprooted man has spent the past couple of centuries trying to rationalize the duende out of existence. First with the Christian missionaries’ demonization of the old pagan gods; then, under the banner of “progress”, with the mass delusion that death could somehow be avoided, or at the very least postponed. An erosion of primal values that shifted death from the order of the sacred to the bin of the unpleasant.
In the antiseptic house of the uprooted the duende is no longer welcome. Its followers are deemed morbid, mad, self-destructive. In such a house no true art can grow.
Black Gods in Exile – Pierre Verger
Rhythm for Shango in Pobè: Aluja
Yoruba Praises
1
Shango is the death who kills money with a big stick
The man who lies will die in his home
Shango strikes the one who is stupid
He wrinkles his nose and the liar runs off
Even when he does not fight, we fear him
But when war shines in his eye
His enemies and worshippers run all the same
Fire in the eye, fire in the mouth, fire on the roof
The leopard who killed the sheep and bathed in its blood
The man who died in the market and woke up in the house
2
Shango is an animal like the gorilla
A rare animal in the forest
As rare as the monkey who is a medicine man
Shango, do not give me a little of your medicine
Give me all! So that I can spread it over my face and mouth
Anybody who waits for the elephant, waits for death
Anybody who waits for the buffalo, waits for death
Anybody who waits for the railway, waits for trouble
He says we must avoid the thing that will kill us
He says we must avoid trouble
He is the one who waited for the things we are running away from
Yoruba
Black Gods in Exile – Ouidah, Benin (1948-1949) – Pierre Verger
Haiti – Bruce Gilden
“[…]a furious, burning duende, friend to those winds heavy with sand, that make listeners tear at their clothes with the same rhythm as the Negroes of the Antilles in their rite, huddled before the statue of Santa Bárbara.” (Lorca)
Lorca didn’t know that beneath the church-&-state-proof veil of Santa Barbara, the real object of such frenzied worship was Shango–one of the “hot” orishas (gods/spirits) of the Yoruba: hot as in violent, unpredictable, essence of the primal life-stuff.
The duende flicks naturally off the tongue of those who praise the hot gods.
R.L. Burnside – Stack O’Lee And Billy Lyons
from Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971) – Melvin Van Peebles
The Pig
1
Crushing the Pig
Ter na ni na O! Ter na ni na O!
Make a hole in the big gourd. I will go for water.
The old mother blows me out of the house.
O ter na ni na O!
The leaves of the parsa tree have long stalks.
You’ve been lying with your son.
I am going to cut my bewar.
You’ve been sleeping with your brother.
I am busy making rope.
You’ve been lying with your sister’s son.
I am roasting gram.
I am lying with you, and your mother’s watching us.
I am cutting wood for the fire.
You’ve been lying with a little boy.
Ter na ni na O! Ter na ni na O!
2
The Blood-Letting
Bring water, bring water! I’ll wash his feet with water.
Bring oil, bring oil! I’ll wash his feet with oil.
Bring milk, bring milk! I’ll wash his feet with milk.
Teri na ho! Na na re na! Teri na na mor na na!
Today is Saturday, this is the night for the Laru!
We put the belwanti on the feet of the god.
I make a square of pearls.
O master, sit here on your throne.
Tare nake namare nana saheb! Tare nake namare nana!
3
The Coming of the Demon
Ter nana ke nano ho!
Where were you born? Where is your dwelling-place?
I was born down below. I live on the fence.
I am going to live with you.
Then I’ll sleep with your sister.
O Phulera, dance and dance again.
Are you cooking in your kitchen?
May a cat dishonour you!
Don’t have an old woman, she looks so very dirty.
By enjoying young girls, my life is satisfied.
Bring the root of adrak: may your father have you!
Where are you off to, girl?
May your brother dishonor you!
Baiga (India)
Haiti – Bruce Gilden
The Stooges – Gimme Danger
Ritual in Madagascar
Improvised Song against a White Man
I will tell you a terrible truth, aaa!
I’ve seen a girl at Tamatava,
She had her mouth eaten:
It had been devoured by a vasaha,
Her white lover.
I’ve seen another girl at Fenerive,
With a big wound instead of a breast:
Her white lover had devoured her breast, aaa . . .
The vasaha does not love like other men, aaa!
When he makes love,
He slavers and bites like a dog.
Go to him, Benachehina,
And return without a mouth!
Go to him, Rasoa,
And return without a breast!
D’you know why the vasaha has a golden tooth?
The dog barks before he bites,
The vasaha bites with his golden tooth
Before he makes love . . .
A calf sucks the milk of a cow,
The vasaha sucks blood from a girl’s mouth!
Do you believe me, aaa?
Malagasy (Madagascar)
from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) – Tobe Hooper
“Seeking the duende, there is neither map nor discipline. We only know it burns the blood like powdered glass, that it exhausts, rejects all the sweet geometry we understand, that it shatters styles…” (Lorca)
Hausa Hunters (Nigeria)
Lightnin’ Hopkins – Bring Me My Shotgun
A Poison Arrow
Enough poison to make
your head spin, & chains
to pin you down, & once
they’ve shot the arrow
& once it lands, well
it’s just like the fly & the horse:
I mean a fly that’s bitten one horse
will damn sure go after another
& I mean too that this arrow’s
like a pregnant woman
—-hungry for some meat
& even if it doesn’t break your skin
—-you die
& if it gets in & does its stuff
—-you die
& if it sort of touches you & drops right out
you die
& as long as you stay out of my blood
what do I care whose blood you get in
—-kill him
I won’t stand in the way
This is a fire that I’m setting off
& this is a fire that I’m lifting up
& this is a shadow that’s burning
& this is the sun that’s burning
Because the poison I’ve got is stronger than bullets
—-& it’s louder than thunder
—-& it’s hotter than fire
& what do I care who it gets, kill him!
——–I won’t stand in the way
As long as you stay out of my blood
Hausa (Africa)
The Lord of Poison (1918) – David Alfaro Siqueiros
John Lee Hooker – I’m Gonna Kill That Woman
Beware of the bootleg duende peddled by popular singers aping flamenco & blues in form only without any of the grit to back it up. Trying to reduce the duende to the lamentations of the lovesick is like trying to castrate a wild beast. While it’s true that many a blues & flamenco singer will summon the duende in the bullfight arena of relationships between men & women, the real ones do so with a knife between the teeth & fresh blood on their hands.
Woke up this morning… goes the mantra of the blues. Never to sighs & roses, but to a taste of death like a thick coat of scum on the tongue. To those who dance with it, the duende clings like whiskey sweat & rubs off on everything they touch.
from Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974) – Sam Peckinpah
The Black Wrathful Mother, Tibet (19th century)
“Angel and Muse come from outside us: the angel brings light, the Muse form […] While the duende has to be roused from the furthest habitations of the blood.” (Lorca)
Angel & muse–twin props of the uprooted artisan, who pours sauce on his steak & has never known the taste of the kill.
When the fierce tribal goddess was finally granted entry into the orthodox Hindu & Buddhist pantheon, the uptight priestly elite went out of its way to rein in her savagery. They did so by shaving off the goddess’s duende. Sure, Kali still looks wild enough with her waistband of human heads & her bloody mouth, but Hindu doctrine was quick to emphasize that such antics are reserved only for putting demons in their place. That tired old fairy tale about the battle of good against evil…
Here’s the ancient goddess with all her duende still intact, in all her unreasonable & murderous glory.
R.L. Burnside – Goin’ Down South
The Battle Between Anat & the Forces of Mot
————The Virgin Anat
————Camouflages her divine aura
————And puts on
The smell of goats and rabbits
She closes both the doors
Of the Palace of Anat
She catches up to the troops
In the mountain’s slit
————-In the valley
————-Between the cities
————-How she slays them!
She cleaves the Shore folk
She smashes the Western man.
————-All around her
Heads—a swarm of locusts
Hands—like crickets, as many
Soldiers’ hands as thorns on cactus
————Anat bundles up her
————Prize
She loads up the heads
On her back:
She ties the hands
On her belt.
————And, returning from
————The valley
Her knees slosh through
The soldiers’ blood,
The soldiers’ flesh
Up to her hips.
She prods the captives
With the back of her bow.
And Anat comes home
Unsatisfied with her slaughters
In the valley.
She fights on, indoors.
————She sets up
Chairs for soldiers
Tables for soldiers
Stools to be soldiers.
————-How she slays them!
She smites them, then
Stands back
Her liver full of laughter
Her heart filled with joy
Overjoyed
For her knees wade in
Soldiers’ blood:
Soldiers’ flesh
Up to her hips.
When she has finished
Fighting in the house
Lunging between the tables
————-She is full
And she rubs her hands
In the soldiers’ blood.
————She pours the rich oil
————Into a basin
And she washes
Her hands
Virgin Anat
Washes
Her fingers
The Sister-of-the-Peoples
Washes
Her hands in the blood
Of the soldiers
Her fingers in the gore
Of the soldiers
The chairs are only chairs again
The tables, tables
The footstools, footstools
————-She pours out water
To wash
In the dew of the heavens
In the oil of the land
The rain from Cloudrider.
The Heavens’ dew
Bathes her.
————The rain bathes her.
Ugaritic [Canaanite]
Victoria Spivey – Blood Thirsty Blues
Eliane, from the Yawanawá tribe (2016) – Sebastião Salgado
“We have said that the duende loves the edge, the wound, and draws close to places where forms fuse in a yearning beyond visible expression.” (Lorca)
Cherokee Grave
Black Country – Bruce Gilden
The Killer
Careful: —-my knife drills your soul
————-listen, whatever-your-name-is
————-One of the wolf people
listen ——I’ll grind your saliva into the earth
listen ——I’ll cover your bones with black flint
listen ——“ “ “ “ “ “ feathers
listen ——“ “ “ “ “ “ rocks
Because you’re going where it’s empty
————-Black coffin out on the hill
listen the black earth will hide you, will
————-find you a black hut
————-Out where it’s dark, in that country
listen ——I’m bringing a box for your bones
————-A black box
————-A grave with black pebbles
listen——-your soul’s spilling out
listen——-it’s blue
Cherokee
Untitled (Crime scene) (1930s) – Weegee
“If words could kill,” says he who’s never known duende.
Howlin’ Wolf – Commit a Crime
The Cannibal Hymn
The sky is heavy, it is raining stars.
The arches of the sky are cracking; the bones of the earthgod tremble;
The Pleiads are struck dumb by the sight of Unas
Who rises towards the sky, transfigured like a god,
Who lives off his father and eats his mother.
He is the bull of the sky; his heart lives off the divine beings;
He devours their intestines, when their bodies are charged with magic.
It is he who passes judgment, when the elders are slaughtered.
He is Lord over all meals.
He ties the sling with which he catches his prey,
He prepares the meal himself.
It is he who eats men and lives off the gods.
He has servants who execute his orders.
Skullgrabber catches them for him, like bulls with a lasso.
Headerect watches them for him and brings them to him;
Willow-croucher binds them
And tears their intestines from their bodies,
Winepresser slaughters them
And cooks a meal for him in his evening pots.
Unas swallows their magic powers
He relishes their glory.
The large ones among them are his morning meal,
the medium sized are his lunch,
The small ones among them he eats for supper.
Their senile men and women he burns as incense.
The great ones in the North sky lay the fire for him
With the bones of the elders,
Who simmer in the cauldrons themselves;
Look, those in the sky work and labor for Unas.
They polish the cookingpots for him with thighs of their wives.
O Unas has reappeared in the sky,
He is crowned as Lord of the Horizon,
Those he meets in his path he swallows raw.
He has broken the joints of the gods,
Their spines and their vertebrae.
He has taken away their hearts,
He has swallowed the red crown,
He has eaten the green crown,
He feeds on the lungs of the Wise,
He feasts, as he now lives on hearts,
And on the power they contain.
He thrives luxuriously, for all their power is in his belly,
His nobility can no longer be taken away.
He has consumed the brain of every god,
His life time is eternity,
His limit is infinity.
Egyptian
Bleus – Bruce Gilden
John Lee Hooker – I’m Bad Like Jesse James
Warrior (1982) – Jean-Michel Basquiat
Goubassa (Ogun Sword), Abomey, Benin, (c. 1950) – Pierre Verger
“A dead man in Spain is more alive when dead than anywhere else on earth: his profile cuts like the edge of a barber’s razor. […] a country where what is most important of all finds its ultimate metallic value in death.” (Lorca)
He was talking about Spain there, but what he really meant was duende country, which is too dark to know borders.
Ogun may very well be chief of that country, rich in fire & blood, earth & iron.
Brazil: Four Rhythms for Ogun (Ketu Rhythm / Gege Rhythm / ‘Jesha Rhythm / Congo-Angola Rhythm)
Praises of Ogun
. . . who smashes someone into pieces that are more or less big
his town’s got stuff in it most people couldn’t guess at
Ogun is called a thief by definition
Ogun is master of the crown Big-Ogun props up on his head
Ogun is orisha number three
he’s master of his town no he won’t leave anyone alone who
—-badmouths Ogun like a thief
he’s very high & mighty
he hires an elephant to say prayers to his head
he kills the husband in a fire
he kills the wife in her foyer
he kills the babies when they try to run outside
he takes somebody’s head off if he feels like
he covets his neighbor’s prick
even if there’s water in his house Ogun washes up with blood
Ogun makes the child kill himself with the sword he plays around with
a man starts trembling like someone opening a door
he kills on the right & destroys on the right
he kills on the left & destroys on the left
the day Ogun got the husband & wife was the day I was afraid
—-he’d touch me that day we drank the palmwine of terror
quicker than lightning he scares off the loafer
the sword doesn’t know the neck of the swordsmith
the place Ogun lives in town is blacker than nightfall
the day they laid his cornerstone he told his children he’d stay homeless
master of iron, man & warrior
big old mountain on the outskirts of town
a pillar of earth falls & starts it trembling
someone who looks at him stumbles he knocks into a baobab tree
he throws his iron tools down under a coco tree
he shoves it deep in he touches base of cock with his hand maybe
—-he’s gone soft
he makes sure his cock is in no it isn’t soft except his balls
except his balls are drained
never clumsy on the battlefield
the yam neglected by the sick man sends shoots into the bushes
he plows the field its owner doesn’t plow
he tells the sick man if he dies people will take his field away
death rattles keep the sick man from sleeping
a large-headed leaf
big swampy water seeps into the river
a dead man balances his head on shoulder of someone who supports him
Ogun kills the long tits’ owner on the water
battle of the crab & fish
he finds water in his house & on the road but washes up with blood
Ogun sticks a bloodcovered hat on his head
& the bushes & the forest crying “sizzle sizzle”
if someone says Ogun won’t fight a minute later you see him like a
—-dice-cup under an elephant’s foot
Ogun makes a baby’s skull hum like a pumpkin he makes a grown
—-man’s clink like a plate
Ogun I don’t want my balls cut off for no one’s ceremonies
Big-Ogun battles in blood
Big-Ogun who eats of the ram
who hangs a snake around his neck & struts up & down with it
Ogun-of-the-barbers eats other men’s beards
Ogun-of-the-tattoo-artists sucks up their blood
Ogun has four hundred wives & one thousand four hundred children
Ogun won’t help anyone that doesn’t bring him offerings of kola
Big-Ogun my husband my big boss of iron
Ogun sweet river grass abundant Ogun good to eat good to sell
—-good to go around with
If someone says “I’m going to die on the road” bad luck dogs him
—-he dies like a wild deer he drops dead like an ekiri he goes to his
—-death like a dying deer
he has arrows over his body as bad as any wild deer
(unless it wasn’t Akisale that gave birth to an oka snake)
(unless it wasn’t Akisale that gave birth to a boa)
Ogun killed Big-Ogun he captured his town & set up shop there
boss of the world who walks ahead of the orishas
big man who captures the boss of all the other big men
who eats the head of the man who was headstrong
a blacksmith does better in the market than someone working in the fields
Ogun kills Big-Ogun he kills him completely he makes his house into a residence
Ogun seven parts of the houses for Ogun
he is very high & very mighty
he smashes someone into pieces that are more or less big
Yoruba
Ogun Shrine
Echo Of A Scream (1937) – David Alfaro Siqueiros
Howlin’ Wolf – Moanin’ at Midnight
Ogun & Quetzalcoatl… when you get down to it, it’s their willful death-dealing that makes them the twin gods of the duende. Ogun shuns water to bathe in blood. Quetzalcoatl abandons a kingdom to pursue death. Both outcasts by choice, vagrants, dwellers among the rabble & the elements. God as relentless maker & undoer, as performance artist, whose every act shapes the world around him. Primal forces of transformation so deep they bypass the language of reason & go straight for the jugular of poetry.
John Lee Hooker – It Serve You Right to Suffer
Temple of the Feathered Serpent (Quetzalcoatl), Teotihuacan (Mexico)
Quetzalcoatl (1974) – Michael Ríos, Anthony “Tony” Machado, Richard Montez
The Flight of Quetzalcoatl
*
Then the time came for Quetzalcoatl too, when he felt the darkness twist
—-in him like a river, as though it meant to weigh him down, & he thought
—-to go then, to leave the city as he had found it & to go, forgetting there
—-ever was a Tula
Which was what he later did, as people tell it who still speak about the
—-Fire: how he first ignited the gold & silver houses, their walls speckled
—-with red shells, & the other Toltec arts, the creations of man’s hands &
—-the imagination of his heart
& hid the best of them in secret places, deep in the earth, in mountains or
—-down gullies, buried them, took the cacao trees & changed them into
—-thorned acacias
& the birds he’d brought there years before, that had the richly colored
—-feathers & whose breasts were like a living fire, he sent ahead of him to
—-trace the highway he would follow toward the seacoast
When that was over he started down the road
*
A whole day’s journey, reached
THE JUNCTURE OF THE TREE
(so-called)
————fat prominence of bark
————sky branches
I sat beneath it
saw my face/cracked
mirror
An old man
————& named it
————TREE OF OLD AGE
thus to name
it to raise stones
to wound the bark
with stones
to batter it with
stones the stones to
cut the bark to fester
in the bark
————TREE OF OLD AGE
stone patterns: starting
from the roots they
reach the highest leaves
*
The next day gone with walking
Flutes were sounding in his ears
————Companions’ voices
He squatted on a rock to rest
he leaned his hands against the rock
————-Tula shining in the distance
: which he saw he
saw it & began to cry
he cried the cold sobs cut his throat
—-A double thread of tears, a hailstorm
—-beating down his face, the drops
—-burn through the rock
—-The drops of sorrow fall against the stone
—-& pierce its heart
& where his hands had rested
shadows lingered on the rock: as if
his hands had pressed soft clay
As if the rock were clay
The mark too of his buttocks in the rock,
embedded there forever
The hollow of his hands preserved forever
————-A place named TEMACPALCO
*
To Stone Bridge next
water swirling in the riverbed
a spreading turbulence of water
: where he dug a stone up
made a bridge across
————& crossed it
*
: who kept moving until he reached the Lake of Serpents, the elders waiting
—-for him there, to tell him he would have to turn around, he would
—-have to leave their country & go home
: who heard them ask where he was bound for, cut off from all a man
—-remembers, his city’s rites long fallen into disregard
: who said it was too late to turn around, his need still driving him, &
—-when they asked again where he was bound, spoke about a country of
—-red daylight & finding wisdom, who had been called there, whom the
—-sun was calling
: who waited then until they told him he could go, could leave his Toltec
—-things & go (& so he left those arts behind, the creations of man’s
—-hands & the imagination of his heart; the crafts of gold & silver, of
—-working precious stones, of carpentry & sculpture & mural painting &
—-book illumination & featherweaving)
: who, delivering that knowledge, threw his jewelled necklace in the lake,
—-which vanished in those depths, & from then on that place was called
—-The Lake of Jewels
*
Another stop along the line
————This time
————THE CITY OF THE SLEEPERS
And runs into a shaman
Says, you bound for somewhere honey
Says, the country of Red Daylight know it? expect to land there probe a
—-little wisdom maybe
Says, no fooling try a bit of pulque brewed it just for you
Says, most kind but awfully sorry scarcely touch a drop you know
Says, perhaps you’ve got no choice perhaps I might not let you go now
—-you didn’t drink perhaps I’m forcing you against your will might even
—-get you drunk come on honey drink it up
Drinks it with a straw
————So drunk he falls down fainting
————on the road & dreams &
————snores his snoring echoes very far
& when he wakes finds silence
& an empty town, his face
reflected & the hair shaved off
————Then calls it
————CITY OF THE SLEEPERS
*
There is a peak between Old Smokey
& The White Woman
Snow is falling
& fell upon him in those days
————& on his companions
————who were with him, on
————his dwarfs, his clowns
————his gimps
—————It fell
till they were frozen
lost among the dead
The weight oppressed him
& he wept for them
He sang
—-The tears are endless
—-& the long sighs
—-issue from my chest
Further out
THE HILL OF MANY COLORS
which he sought
Portents everywhere, those
dark reminders
of the road he walks
*
It ended on the beach
It ended with a hulk of serpents formed into a boat
& when he’d made it, sat in it & sailed away
A boat that glided on those burning waters, no one knowing when he
—-reached the country of Red Daylight
It ended on the rim of some great sea
It ended with his face reflected in the mirror of its waves
The beauty of his face returned to him
& he was dressed in garments like the sun
It ended with a bonfire on the beach where he would hurl himself
& burn, his ashes rising & the cries of birds
It ended with the linnet, with the birds of turquoise color, birds the
—-color of wild sunflowers, red & blue birds
It ended with the birds of yellow feathers in a riot of bright gold
Circling till the fire had died out
Circling while his heart rose through the sky
It ended with his heart transformed into a star
It ended with the morning star with dawn & evening
It ended with his journey to Death’s Kingdom with seven days of darkness
With his body changed to light
A star that burns forever in that sky
Aztec
Charley Patton – Down the Dirt Road Blues
Quetzalcoatl in the Codex Borgia
Cuauhtémoc against the myth (1944) – David Alfaro Siqueiros
https://peertube.lyclpg.itereva.pf/videos/watch/1a6f7bc7-92b7-4f66-bae2-4ff6b1464e77
from Dead Man (1995) – Jim Jarmusch
“The arrival of the duende presupposes a radical change to all the old kinds of form, brings totally unknown and fresh sensations, with the qualities of a newly created rose, miraculous, generating an almost religious enthusiasm.” (Lorca)
Doumè, Benin (1948-1958) – Pierre Verger
The duende’s white-hot healing power is easily overlooked by those who confuse it for a one-laned death-drive.
For the duende is the knife that cauterizes the wound it itself made.
The man of duende is like the Tibetan yogi Milarepa after his enlightenment, “the madman who counts death happiness”.
Those who summon the dark winds come out refreshed like newborn babes & hear the voices of the gods with perfect clarity.
Navajo man wearing ceremonial mask & dress of Naayééʼ Neizghání (Enemy Slayer) – Edward S. Curtis (c. 1904)
A Dance Song of the Night Chant
from The Night Chant
In Tsegihi
In the house made of the dawn
In the house made of evening twilight
In the house made of dark cloud
In the house made of rain & mist, of pollen, of grasshoppers
Where the dark mist curtains the doorway
The path to which is on the rainbow
Where the zigzag lightning stands high on top
Where the he-rain stands high on top
O male divinity
With your moccasins of dark cloud, come to us
With your mind enveloped in dark cloud, come to us
With the dark thunder above you, come to us soaring
With the shapen cloud at your feet, come to us soaring
With the far darkness made of the dark cloud over your head, come to
—-us soaring
With the far darkness made of the rain & mist over your head, come to
—-us soaring
With the zigzag lightning flung out high over your head
With the rainbow hanging high over your head, come to us soaring
With the far darkness made of the rain & the mist on the ends of your
—-wings, come to us soaring
With the far darkness of the dark cloud on the ends of your wings,
—-come to us soaring
With the zigzag lightning, with the rainbow high on the ends of your
—-wings, come to us soaring
With the near darkness made of the dark cloud of the rain & the mist,
—-come to us
With the darkness on the earth, come to us
With these I wish the foam floating on the flowing water over the roots
—-of the great corn
I have made your sacrifice
I have prepared a smoke for you
My feet restore for me
My limbs restore, my body restore, my mind restore, my voice restore
—-for me
Today, take out your spell for me
Today, take away your spell for me
Away from me you have taken it
Far off from me it is taken
Far off you have done it
Happily I recover
Happily I become cool
My eyes regain their power, my head cools, my limbs regain their
—-strength, I hear again
Happily the spell is taken off for me
Happily I walk, impervious to pain I walk, light within I walk, joyous I walk
Abundant dark clouds I desire
An abundance of vegetation I desire
An abundance of pollen, abundant dew, I desire
Happily may fair white corn come with you to the ends of the earth
Happily may fair yellow corn, fair blue corn, fair corn of all kinds,
plants of all kinds, goods of all kinds, jewels of all kinds, come with you
—-to the ends of the earth
With these before you, happily may they come with you
With these behind, below, above, around you, happily may they come
—-with you
Thus you accomplish your tasks
Happily the old men will regard you
Happily the old women will regard you
The young men & the young women will regard you
The children will regard you
The chiefs will regard you
Happily as they scatter in different directions they will regard you
Happily as they approach their homes they will regard you
May their roads home be on the trail of peace
Happily may they all return
In beauty I walk
With beauty before me I walk
With beauty behind me I walk
With beauty above me I walk
With beauty above & about me I walk
It is finished in beauty
It is finished in beauty
Navajo
from Yeelen (1987) – Souleymane Cissé
Head of a Man – Pablo Picasso (1907)
Kore Mask – Bamana (Mali)
Ali Farka Touré – Erdi
The Voice of the Karaw
(1)
Bursts of twilight’s frantic wing-beats, submit to me, I am Yori
I am as the arching sky, as encounter of crossroads in space
Green savanna, entirely fresh, green savanna entirely outstretched
—-where no dog may scavenge
Hornbill of deaf-mute village I am deaf-mute chief.
What sort of a thing is this? Come, old tearers-to-shreds, submit to me,
—-I am Yori.
Astonishing! What we are learning now existed already, arriving from
—-beforehand: rhythm
I entered the flow and found it was transformation—
Rhythm, beginning of all beginning speech, was the crowned crane’s:
—-I speak, said the crowned crane,
—-meaning I know I speak.
Oh, if I here misspeak, may heat of error be sufficient to pardon my mistakes;
If I omit, may omission be forgiven that anticipates!
Old knives, having been sheathed, cannot transpierce the mystery—
—-come, old tearers-to-shreds, submit to me,
—-I am Yori
I am as the arching sky, as encounter of crossroads in space,
I am as the unique sun!
Cock’s head of night’s transformation, Father of my instruction, see, my
—-arm is bent behind my back as you wish;
Memory itself is to blame for all mistakes,
—-memory which makes me stumble, if I do
As for oblivion—blame inattention of spirit;
Perhaps a running knot will form along the cord of my speech;
—-but all cords are corridors leading to embrace
And all antechambers lead to our common origin: Mande
All having derives from another’s possession
—-To have you come, you arrive by means of instruction;
Transformation, where true possession takes place,
—-even moderate insight
—-anticipates penetration.
His word has been translated exactly!
Transformation, all transformation, man’s furnace,
—-crucible of patience,
—-I say all waiting is pure patience
If these words be spoken at the crossroads of space!
Bamana
Ali Farka Touré – N’Jarou
BONUS
And lastly I’ve added these two poems of my own, seeing as they too traffic in the duende.
Praises of Andalusia
by Carsten Czarnecki
head is home to spirit
half a summer’s day
trying to cool it
remembrance of the other half
washed away with beer
you call that Andalusian housekeeping
Andalusia, land of sun & bitterness!
your sons scrub dust & sand off mothers’ feet by day
& when night comes
squat curbside by the butchershop
cursing every stranger
that stands between them & their meat
mother Andalusia, marijuana chokes your alleyways
the night your sons gather to shoot the shit
for them there’s no relief till comes
the day of the goring of the bull
oh naked, joyous Andalusia!
young city woman plays at being goddess of the seashore
she’s made a pact with the wind to dance in her hair
& when the waves lap at her thighs
drops the last bit of cloth
to dip her cunt into the sea
& just like that
cocks stiffen & souls revive
even those who thought
they had no life left in them
oh hidden, secret Andalusia!
your Germans take after the bats in Nerja’s caves
they got no taste for daylight
is that the shadow he’s casting
or demons fast on his heels?
that first week’s tan won’t last for long
German’s got a shaky hold on spirit
like a cigarette slipping through
the fingers of the man that’s nodding off
oh Andalusia, shuttered in your whitewashed homes
die men who never knew you
Andalusia, your wells may lack for water but they do not lack for blood!
the old singer of flamenco he puts down his guitar
holds out a back-hand
cracked & dry as riverbed
his pride rests in his veins
“see these knuckles streaked with blue?
that’s what this land once looked like”
oh Andalusia, your birds deaf to cries for rain!
this one goes coasting on a cloud
then cuts the cloud mid-air
& drifts out over sea
but he’s no ordinary bird
his wings flap to an older tune
he knows the score
he took part in creation
& still remembers what it is to praise
hail Ogun!
hail Anat!
hail Shango!
here’s to the wild ones!
the gods who have water at home
but do their washing up with blood
Andalusia with your sands as hot as coals!
wandering merchant’s feet are used to it
he knows these beaches better than his homeland
& with eyes untroubled by the glare
sees all the riches hid
beneath these old, old stones
…if only hands could lift them
for now this will do:
sitting under palm tree shade
& sucking sardine flesh right off the spine
Steps to the Spirit-Dance
by Carsten Czarnecki
carry a big stick & give it a name
dance wildly in places of mourning
follow the voices in your head on drums
smoke out every place of business with a harsh cigar
when you come to a fork in the road choose neither & go straight for the knife
make a public ritual out of every mental breakdown
steer clear of wintry temperaments
don’t be too hard on those who choose to follow you
chalk up their bad tattoos to scar envy
call the sun your brother but don’t put all your trust in him
enter every room cockfirst
refuse all sugary offerings
drink your coffee black or not at all
drink your coffee in violent company
never expect a lamp to burn all night
prop up the corpse of Che Guevara
do that until he gets his strut back
then make him head priest of your forest tribe
come gather up the powdered bones of old Lumumba
run them through the crucible of patience
& watch him come forth to praise the killing hand
now he’s master of his own kitchen
the gods are his soul food
like any wise eater he feeds only on those who taste of death
*
p.s. Hey. This weekend the poet and distinguished local Carsten gives you a guided VIP tour of the mysterious and inexplicable force known as duende. Peel your eyes and put on your thinking and feeling caps until Monday at the very soonest. The rewards are voluminous. Thank you from the mysterious and inexplicable place known as the bottom of my heart, Carsten. ** _Black_Acrylic, That newest 7038634357 album is beautiful, start to finish. One of my year’s favorites. Everyone, _Black_Acrylic adds a track by SB&C – Pulsatrix to yesterday’s gig. ** James Bennett, Hi. No, didn’t make it to PdT so, yes, maybe we can go together. Everyone, James Bennett, as you may well know, is the proprietor of the new and mighty Ssnake Press, and he’s been interviewed about it @ Worms Magazine, and I suspect you would like to imbibe that. Here. Luck with the Gluck finessing as needed. Did you get it sorted? ** Jack Skelley, Aw, Pancho’s Tacos is biting the dust? If it makes it until December, I’ll snag a last burrito. Tito’s Tacos is a mystery to me. I would say ‘whew’ about the El Cid performance, but, like anyone in their right mind, I knew you would ace it. See you bright and early tomorrow! ** Dominik, Hi!!! That Hungarian version makes absolutely no sense to me which of course makes it greatly superior. Huh, maybe gnomes have some place of honor in Austria’s history? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a garden gnome here in France. Maybe the French actually are snooty people like common folk visitors seem to believe. I’m so tech naive that even I don’t know the difference between an en and em dash, but I can guess. It’s a matter of length? No, right? Love befuddled by why his social media feeds believe he is constantly starved for photos and news about the B52s/Devo/Lene Lovich concert tour because he is not, G. ** Tosh Berman, Cool. I hope to get to talk with Taylor about Michael if he so wishes. ** Carsten, In person warmest thanks for the shebang this weekend. Yeah, it’s nice to finally get to show ‘RT’ in NYC for sure. Bruce Gilden, no, only from your post. When I was in Ghent there was a giant book by Nathaniel Mackey on the New Books table, but I can’t remember its title. I have my weather widget set to Fahrenheit, old habit, and it’s 51 degrees here, but it feels chillier. I’m loving it. Have a very deservedly great weekend. ** Laura, Yo! Oh, Brabant, I think I’ve been there once. The only things I remember about Charleville are the Rimbaud statue near the train station and a lot of businesses with ‘Rimbaud’ in their name and the Rimbaud Museum, which, at that time at least, was housed in a very rickety old wooden building by the river that looked like it would immediately be reduced to ashes if someone lit a match nearby. Yeah, everyone seems very into that Rosalía album, I need to try it. You could send your work to denniscooper72@outklook.com with the caveat that I can be very slow even when I’m highly interested as in your case. Bon weekend. ** Steve, Hey. This weekend? Mm, see a friend, do my biweekly Zoom book/film club on Sunday, start organising for my Houston trip next week, respond to emails … pretty utilitarian, I suspect. Big up re: your health’s clean bill. The Lauten Der Seele album is really nice. Right, the Kali Malone/Drew McDowall collab. What a very odd coupling in theory. ** darbbzz⋆｡°✩🎃✩°｡⋆, Yay, keep that Halloween spirit going! Mentoring kids is a lovely idea, obviously. See how it goes, though. I wish weed didn’t just make me paranoid, but oh well. I’d so love good ramen. All the ramen I’ve tried in Paris so far has been weak as hell. Thank you! ** Eric C., Hi, Eric. I am, I am. I’d love to see them live. Maybe they’ll get over here to Paris. Probably not though. But still. I’ll seek out the Pixel Grip album, thanks very much. You’ve seen Sanguisugabogg live? Wow. I’m kind of addicted to that guy’s voice. Thanks for reading my things, and I’m seriously chuffed if my things inspired your thing. Nothing better than that. Have a good two next days to say the least. ** HaRpEr //, Oh, okay, repeating patterns, understood. I was in therapy for about three years in the 90s, and I had the same big fear about my obsessions, but it didn’t end them, it just made them more understandable, which was good ultimately. I love ‘Houseboat Days’. Honestly, I love all of Ashbery, all of the books. I even love the ones that people think are really slight and minor like ‘Shadow Train’. ** Uday, Try eating chocolate cake, a least two big slices. Sometimes that motivates me. Kevin would be hard to simulate physically, it’s true. Huh. I barely even look at myself in the mirror, so I don’t what would qualify someone as my simulacrum. I have this tic of messing with my hair. That might do it. And I’m tall so maybe platform shoes? Gosh. How would someone replicate you? ** Okay. As previously stated, Carsten has you very covered this weekend, so please do that, and I will see you here on Monday.
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