Ann Arbor Review


Laszlo Slomovits
Alan Britt
Tolu Ogunlesi
Paul B. Roth
Gerald Clark
Dike Okoro
Jerry Blanton
Felino Soriano
Joanie Freeman
Steve Barfield
Shuta Crum
Running Cub
Odimegwn Onwumere
Duane Locke
Chris Lord
Fred Wolven
Nona Giorgadze
Bobby Steve Baker
Brandon S. Ray
Serena Trome
Paul Handley
Kanev Peycho
George Moore
R. Jay Slais
Carol Smallwood

Sabahudin Hadzialic
Ian Smith



Welcome to an evening of lost souls.
Even with music, dance and poetry,
no cathedral bell
will count this hour.

Red and black are the colors of flamenco.
Red is the most recent
but black has always been.
White red has the heat and the passion,
black tells the terrible truths.
This is not a fashion statement
but the difference between
hope and despair.

Flamenco is kissing the cobra dangerous.
In Grenada
you must listen carefully
for the Civil Guard.
Songs come from that part of the throat
where the sob is found.

Cicada castanets offer a rhythm
that is specific to the moment.
A Spanish guitar summons the colors.
No tambourine,
for it is an instrument of celebration
and flamenco needs complaint.

Hand clap is so all
will know this rhythm.
It was carried by hand from the caves.
The dancing woman has a shawl
for the caves were cold.
These were the caves of sanctuary,
of Gypsy history.
Black was found here.

Mixing red and black
gives you the color
of Gypsy blood.


Ash or dust
choose now for an eternity.

The fire is a final warming
It is a last light
for the coming dark.
The roar of the fire is the same
as that found in the solar wind.

The smoke is a wafting shadow
of what used to be.
It is a condensation,
a shedding of gravity
drifting away from memory
and into the absolute.


Is there a spirit in your spin?
With clockwise logic
are you turning away from the world?
Are your arms outstretched
to embrace some comic balance?
What are you seeing?
Or do you seek the dark?

There must be a sloughing
of time and space.
You may find transport to the truth.
But, be careful with what is found.
Truth is despised
and so its proponents.

The world in contemplation offers:
no nostalgia for the past,
no liking of the present
and no hope for the future.

Your robes are immaculate
with circular perfection.
These are clothes fit
to take you before your God.

Can you hear the poet Rumi
telling a philosophy of love.

Steve Barfield, North Palm Beach, Florida


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