dVerse, Paul's Rhythm Journey, Poetry

keep the faith

original-12139-1427827775-19

Here we dance upon our leaf tossed floor

Northern beech

full of soul

no chalk required here

twisting our bodies to the rhythms of the Earth

on green moss covered creepers

flailing curly dreadlocks in our wake

ancient gnarly faces lit with full wide grins

we are up and at it in the early hours

love for the music of life flows

indeed it does

 

submission for Kim’s Autumnal Poetics prompt at dVerse

notes: the movement in the image brought to mind the Northern Soul scene, a particular song, and memories of the dancefloor craze that swept across Northern England in the 1970’s.

Here’s the song by Frank Wilson referenced in the poem’s closing line and a video of the kind of dancing you might see at Wigan casino in it’s pomp.

 

dVerse, Paul's Rhythm Journey, Quadrille

tons of sobs

electric fingertips channeling screeching soul

air magiced vibrato tugging the guts of it all

smoky vocal painting velvet strokes

snake hipped bass lines with funk to spare

a beat so far back it was the original rhythm

young gifted bluesmen breaking out

breaking Free

 

Posted for Quadrille #40 at dVerse

Notes: Formed in London in 1968 by vocalist Paul Rodgers, guitarist Paul Kossoff, bassist Andy Fraser and drummer Simon Kirke, the group signed with Island Records and released their debut album Tons of Sobs in 1969. At the time of their formation Rodgers and Kirk were 18, Kossoff 17 and Fraser just 15. One major musical disappointment in my life is that I was too young to see them burn their bright star before it was all over.

‘We were hell-bent on what we did. I didn’t care if I live or died, but for the band.’        Paul Rodgers

 

 

Paul's Rhythm Journey, Real Toads

whirly bird

Susie is inviting us to dance in the garden.
Wow! We are swimming in negativity from Facebook posts to news outlets. We can’t climb out of the pit if we’re always feeding on reasons for walls. So today Toads and visitors we’re going to dance.
“Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart”. Martha GrahamI actually love to dance. I feel a sense of freedom, joy, courage when I lose myself in movement to a favorite song. It is not about whether I’m good or bad at it. It is about letting go and celebrating who I am without my thoughts pulsing with negativity.
Today’s challenge is to express dance through poetry. Pick a photo, a quote, video…Pick whatever inspires you. Write a new poem…Post it on Mr. Linky and visit your fellow poets to read their poetic choreography.
wilddancer16x20
Img source~http://www.gloriacokerfineart.com/category/dance/
“Hard times require furious dancing. Each of us is proof.” Alice Walker
the movement is
pre fired neuron
instinctual like a gecko’s tongue snap
lilt and jerk
twist and pop
my inner yin and yang
vibrating in harmony with the beat
and with each other
to create groove-
funk consciousness that
consumes being
i exist here
in the realm of deep rhythm
as molecules
which pull bone into new gravity
dictated by the flow outward of soul-
shine shapes and shadows
thrown in a whirl that
spiral into higher love
dervish-like
beaming a smile
into my close orbit
that posts a neon note saying
freedom lives here right now
let go and
dance or
take your shit elsewhere
merge
ebb and flow
with the sound of ‘fuck all this’
flee from the mind’s
keyboard chatter tv screen mumbo
into oblivion’s rumba filled night
snake hip the floor and sink
into trance talk with Legba
down at the crossroad boogie
spin out and away
loss and gain grind and bump
birth darkness and light
bleed pain and love
screaming into life
dance your last dance wildly
bring divinity to it’s knees
break the line between us
whirl this world sane again
Paul's Rhythm Journey, Poetry, Real Toads

Fields

Michael is hosting at Real Toads.

Nearly high noon of summer here in the northern hemisphere.

What they won’t say anymore, or ask, is what happened to birdsong?

Maybe it’s only here in concrete southern California – maybe where you are, there are more than crow squawks and gull cries and the occasional dove coo at dusk.

For this edition of get listed, see if you can bring the sounds of summer to the page – something missing, or maybe something just waiting to get noticed again.

As always, please post an original poem to your blog, link that pen to Mr. Linky, then visit back to read and comment on the other poems as the days go by. The prompt will remain open.

The List: 3 at least to choose from.

heat, bird, easy, fling, pass, sweat, corn, float, ice cream (that’s considered one), bright, cricket, dusk.

 

Summer won’t come until

once more into

the field of dreams

i float and sit to drink a cold

craft ale brewed locally

 

listening to the soundcheck

that is always that song

as I sit in the sacred willow circle

where we will once again

conjure up music medicine

 

it won’t come until i drive

the van load of drums

past the Yorkshire

village cricket pitches

where the smack of leather

 

on willow reminds me

of the circle of things

and my direction

towards this home

from home

 

summer won’t come until

that final dusk falls and we sit

fire bound and mesmerised

by the flamed dance once more

and raise a glass

 

to those who came

those who could not

and those who might

summer rolls on and

we harvest the corn of it

 

Notes: Stainsby Festival gathers for it’s 49th in a couple of weeks. For me the last 18 years are marked by this place and my summer times there. I’ve written about it before. Tags will get you there. I am gathering my drums now and soon will set off on the road to summer. This is the starting point for my wee tour always. This song always sings to me, that Summer is here.

 

 

 

Paul's Rhythm Journey, Poetry, Spirituality

find your way

Two nights ago I was fortunate to see Rising Appalachia live in Glasgow. I have followed their journey from afar for some years and have taught a version of a traditional West African song called Sunu in my drum classes, which they have recorded so beautifully….so this was a special night for me. They did not disappoint. So moved was I that I cancelled my plans and jumped on a train the next morning to Leeds to see their next gig and surprise Mrs Scribbles who could not make Glasgow and thought I could not make Leeds. Another treat was in store for me. Sadly all my plans cannot be cancelled and work/play at festivals beckon me so I will most likely (never say never!!!) not catch them again on this tour. Here is a poem i wrote inspired by the two gigs and my brief encounter with these lovely folk. Haste Ye Back.

 

life affirming

soul sound

aimed right

at your heart

 

resonating

at the

frequency of love

 

pure

and determined

to

affect change

 

blessing us with

music rooted in

a deep-down and dirty

Southern Sista(hood)

 

and in the Earth

THIS our only Earth

and her people

 

those who have a seat at their table

for a stranger

a cup spare to fill up

a plate of food

a bed for the night

a lift along the road

the diggers

the dreamers

 

humans

being

 

bardic vibrations

ink-folk-ed

and ancestral

unfold

before us

as the songs rise up

 

some say spirit shines here

bright and alive

and they’d be right

 

but what

moves me the most

is the HUMANITY

 

this deep

 

beautiful

 

presence

 

borne out of

 

a life loved

and lived

 

in

 

sacred

 

moments

 

 

step

by

learn(ed)

step

 

and out of a walk

of talk

 

of purpose

 

of power

 

this ain’t no show

this shit’s for real

 

harmonies of the whole lift

you and your

new found soul cradle

up to a place

on the bough of

the world tree

that you only thought

could be dreamed

about

 

to rock you

sweetly

gently

and so soulfully

 

smiles a mile wide

eyes deep and light

a flame burns there

 

and you catch the fire

 

hearts connected by blood

pumping Sista -love through the veins of it all

 

strings that collide

both thick and thin

in an ecstatic dance

woven into majestic

sound-vines

that wrap a melody

around us all

 

like a hug

from the inside out

 

and pull us into the heart of this

 

rhythm that is full

but spacious

 

funked up

and breathing

 

flowing from the

shaker-hands

and finger tips of

a

deep

listener

 

this is not just music

nor art

 

but an echo of life’s very pulse

throbbing and vital

 

necessary

 

i am altered

by this

 

taken away

but simultaneously

brought

right back

 

to here

 

to the

NOW

 

i bathe in this

drink it in

knowing it must pass

 

i swallow it whole

and hold it there

visioned

like that glorious dawn moon-rise

that lingers

in the photograph

i never took

 

and i walk on

with a song in my heart

 

reminding me

to

keep on

finding

my

way

 

 

 

 

dVerse, Paul's Rhythm Journey, Quadrille

konnakol (the sound of)

Tonight’s Quadrille challenge at dVerse offered by Victoria is to write a 44 word poem including the word Sound.

This is a poem built from phrases I learned during a Konnakol workshop.

 

that thom kitta tha’ka

daka dari kitta tha’ka

that thom kitta tha’ka

 

tha’ka juna thari kitta

thatta thikka kitta juna

tha’ka juna thari kitta

 

thom kitta that thom kitta tha’ka

thakka dari kitta tha’ka

thom kitta that thom kitta tha’ka

thakka dari kitta thom

Notes:

Konnakol (also spelled Konokol, Konakkol) (Tamil: கொன்னக்கோல்) is the art of performing percussion syllables vocally in South Indian music, the Carnatic music (South Indian classical) performance art of vocal percussion. Konnakol is the spoken component of solkattu, which refers to a combination of konnakol syllables spoken while simultaneously counting the tala (meter) with the hand.[1]
The term ‘Indian Scat’ used in the video below is not correct but the performance is a fantastic example of Konnakol in action.
dVerse, Paul's Rhythm Journey, Poetry

b{eat)

It’s OLN at dVerse and I’m throwing a new form ( for me) into the ring this evening – the Eintou. The poem is 7 lines long, with a syllable count of 2-4-6-8-6-4-2.

It’s origins are credited to early African American poets!

 

o{pen}

to t(h)e s(ound) of

 

the d(rum)beat of my he/art

r (hy) th (m) co (n) necting me to the

so (ur) ce of all t (hing) s that ar (e)

pu (shh) ing me to

fin(d) _ _ (p)eas