Semana Santa in Sevilla

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

Flamenco singing calls for death to come.

Death lives forever, stubborn, in Seville.

In Holy Week the living, nearly numb

From saints and virgins, feel the sacred chill

In festive iciness in idols crammed

With guilt paraded through the trumpet streets.

A metal Jesus tortures people damned

To his salvific tricks.  The virgin teats

Are unapproached.  The worshippers dry surge

To see the virgins clothed, clothed, clothed in silk

Embroidered with gems to cool their urge

For lives with sex (replaced with buttermilk).

  Death does not need to come.  It lives here, full,

    Unendingly, and worshiped with a bull.

~ Phillip Whidden

by phillipw | Apr 16, 2025 | CH, Ho, RE, RO, SE | 0 comments