Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
Drumming
I've heard the drums get so loud
I wondered if I'd ever hear anything but the drums.
The sound reverberates, back and forth and forth and back
Until it hits me hard within my heart.
Suddenly it's not my heart that beats,
It's the drums, they get engraved in my mind.
Not one or two drummers, but a dozen. My mind
Photographs the inner beauty of each. The voices are loud,
Singing with the drums, the relentless beats
That would deafen any other color. Medicine drums,
So powerful, it's no longer my heart
That beats; it's only the drums, vibrating up my back.
Before long, it's back
To the “real” world. In my mind,
I weep; the “real” world depresses my heart,
Everything is so loud,
And not like the deerhide drums;
It's a white and black kind of beat.
From the distance, I hear the beat
Of longhouse drums and singing, my back
To the “real” world. These drums
Follow me to bed. Etched in my mind
Are the memories of a good kind of loud,
The drums, dancers, singers, the love in my heart.
But it isn't my heart
Which raucously beats
At night, it's too loud
But not loud enough to take me back.
It's the drums which are sketched in my mind.
I wonder whether or not they're painted, those drums.
What would you do, if they took away the drums?
How would you feel? With your heart?
With your wallet? Or your modernized mind?
What if some group of people beat
The meaning and culture out of your race. How would you get it back?
How would you deal with a white world that's too loud?
How long before the drums stop making their beats?
How long before your heart droops, and you're flat on your back,
Cultureless, lacking a native's mind, learning a new kind of loud?
May 19, 2005
Suge
I wondered if I'd ever hear anything but the drums.
The sound reverberates, back and forth and forth and back
Until it hits me hard within my heart.
Suddenly it's not my heart that beats,
It's the drums, they get engraved in my mind.
Not one or two drummers, but a dozen. My mind
Photographs the inner beauty of each. The voices are loud,
Singing with the drums, the relentless beats
That would deafen any other color. Medicine drums,
So powerful, it's no longer my heart
That beats; it's only the drums, vibrating up my back.
Before long, it's back
To the “real” world. In my mind,
I weep; the “real” world depresses my heart,
Everything is so loud,
And not like the deerhide drums;
It's a white and black kind of beat.
From the distance, I hear the beat
Of longhouse drums and singing, my back
To the “real” world. These drums
Follow me to bed. Etched in my mind
Are the memories of a good kind of loud,
The drums, dancers, singers, the love in my heart.
But it isn't my heart
Which raucously beats
At night, it's too loud
But not loud enough to take me back.
It's the drums which are sketched in my mind.
I wonder whether or not they're painted, those drums.
What would you do, if they took away the drums?
How would you feel? With your heart?
With your wallet? Or your modernized mind?
What if some group of people beat
The meaning and culture out of your race. How would you get it back?
How would you deal with a white world that's too loud?
How long before the drums stop making their beats?
How long before your heart droops, and you're flat on your back,
Cultureless, lacking a native's mind, learning a new kind of loud?
May 19, 2005
Suge
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Drumming
Drumming
