A Poem on Magda Giannikou


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.


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