published on
Djembe--
poem by Jo Richter An excerpt from hls magnflcent work "Departure"
canto VI
This spire, she continued, is but the lasting remnant
of a cave. The very first one to be adorned with ochre
drawings. The very first one in which olorine bone
was carved to sound a flute. All the surrounding
land has sunken since that golden age – but for this
place. Here, Apollo handed the lyre to Orpheus.
A spire now, it has been maintained by entertaining
visitors ike you and by hosting muses like myself.
Now, she pursed her lips, we live in utter confusion.
The inside protrudes like a lofty spire while
the outside caves in like a poet‘s drawer. It is
the epoch of the common, shared arts withdrawing.
The innards of ideologies chaperoning fervent
industries are digesting all there is, all life, all things.
Consumption prevails; generation has to retreat
to clandestine niches, obscure, barely beheld.
These are tough times for poets, for artists, for
fragile senses and minds. Still, the spire prevails.
Why, do you think, that is? - He felt his breath soften
as he replied: I do apologize for mistaking you,
the first listener and co-creator of art. You are the one
who heard the song Orpheus sang. It was selfish to
think of you as a muse, relating only to me, my art.
You have listened to the spire and you did understand.
That is how things used to be, she sighed. The poet served,
as you have learned before, those who live to listen well.
He endured the toil of art, they enjoyed the foils of art.
Then the concept of the muse – all upside-down – was
deviously formed to aid the annihilation of the awkward art.
Now that you are aware of this, you soon will have to
leave, as you well know. You have received the only gifts
that this place has to offer, which are a story and some rest.
Is there a way to stay, he asked? I do not want to
compose mixed-up poems in a jumbled-up world. This is
what you are wont to perform, she insisted. But will
I be able to take to shelter when exhaustion takes
over my senses, he asked? You won‘t, she replied,
this is how you serve and die, as any living poet does.
A matter of trust and choice of environment cannot
be settled by impersuasive evasive manoeuvres
- Genre
- poetry/drums