A Poem on Magda Giannikou

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Modestly, spanx under
a pop-pink, pleated tulip skirt peeks,
as she’s bouncing, knees bent, elbows out
pink sheer shirt sleeves rolled, ready for action,
the lumbering accordion breathing effortlessly,
so sensitive to the band and our feeling,
while her flat bare feet stamp the floor,
singing and clapping fills the room with colour,
her squeezing and stretching,
her face big, and open in reaction to playing
and theatrical nods to the crowd.

A mish-mash of cultures, rhythms and sounds
and languages.
Happy, liberated.

View from a Breakdown in Les Hautes-Alpes

 

Bright mustard lichen, stuck on
silver skeleton trees, looked on by
taller, boney figures, grasping bushels;
moss green mistletoe.

Rich evergreens, staining
a weathered grey cloak
of ashen winter, reluctant spring
mountains; aged and towering –

pale dead wisps, yellow
amongst swathes of scrub, ’round
old tin-roofed houses, under heavy cloud,
with shuttered windows,
wood, stone, sleepily shadowed
by grander nature.