¡Oda al acordeón!

Just when I needed a project, a new Flaco Jiménez accordion tutorial arrived in the mail. I’d ordered it a while back and had it shipped media mail, so it took its sweet time finding its way into my mailbox. And then, lo and behold, there it was. To get in the spirit of things, I posted the one picture I have of myself playing my Hohner. My husband snapped it when I was unaware, which is why I appear so placid. Also, I was concentrating on the music in front of me. I’m not much of a musician; reading music is a chore for me. But I love the accordion so very much, especially the diatonic, that my intense desire will feed my lack of talent. That’s the idea, anyway. It stinks not being wired as an artistic person. Sometimes, I wish I could jump out of my skin.

My husband decided a long time ago I would be la flaquita, but frankly, I believe my skills don’t warrant any kind of nickname, except maybe la tonta. In due tontería, I’ll post my Ode to an accordionist below. I’ve probably posted it on some sorry previous occasion, but here I go again. Because poetry. Because I don’t write it any longer. Because if I keep posting my old poems, I’ll someday write new ones. That’s the idea, anyway:

El estuche grande, negro reposa
en mi cuarto a veces;
Es un sueño, sí, como mariposas
que en crisálidas duermen,
para que, adentro, descansen loas,
sonatas y sonetos de las sombras
y marea, liras mojadas en losas
que brotan de la fuente.

Una vez abierto, sobre los muelles
se derraman las olas,
el sonido, el respiro me vuelven,
la copa poderosa
de licor me llena mi anhelo tenue
por lengüetas que vibran lentamente,
por manos que abren mi voz, un fuelle
que, para mí, resopla.

Al fin, es un sabor, dulce a la boca;
no es nada sino muerte
que en mi cama, sobre mi piel se frota.
Son hebillas con cierre;
son sombras sin loas; todas las cosas
que alimentan sueños, ya no me tocan.
Se transforman en canciones llorosas,
entonces se suspenden.

Quiero que la música nunca cese,
que nunca esté sola,
que el acordeonista nunca me deje
entre palabras rotas,
que el estuche negro nunca se lo lleve
del cuarto como mi amante leve
cuyos dedos son aire de repente,
espectro de mis coplas.

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