poetryrepairs #242 17,10:120

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120poet3 : 120poem3

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Three months of every year is the Aborigine Dreaming Time, when the folk of the tribe come together and gather around the sweet gum smoke of the campfire to renew their world through the Dreams, as they have done for thousands of years. The dijeridoo, a rudimentary wind instrument improvised from a fallen, termite-hollowed tree branch, often longer that a man is tall, moans to the rhythmic crack of boomerangs sharply struck together and the loud clap of hand on buttock or thigh. The dancers, always men, their bodies streaked with fabulous designs of coloured mud, follow the steps that match the tale sung by the Shaman, repeating each movement until the story comes to life. What are you doing here, White Woman? the dijeridoo’s strange, exotic voice calls to me, and, at some level of consciousness, I reply, I am watching the dance, feeling the chant in my bones, seeing you, Black Men, borrowed from your starry nights and the bizarre beauty of your faraway land, brought to entertain me on a wide stage covered with red sand, a painted backdrop of trees, a real wood fire filling the huge theatre with its sweet aroma. White woman, why are you here, in this place? the dijeridoo asks again with its hoarse, hypnotic voice, and I answer to myself, I came here imaging modern dance, tasteful routines adapted from primitive traditions. Instead there is the muted, unmelodic call of the dijeridoo, the incessant clicking of the boomerangs, the clapping hands. The unknown sounds pull me into a parallel world. I find myself nodding in a curious sort of half-doze fraught with images I cannot recognize, images that whirl before my eyes, between me and the stage, and I think, “How tired I feel! I am falling asleep!” But wait, this is not sleep, this is – trance. I, sitting in the plush seat of a modern big-city theatre, am entering the Dream! I come to myself, half exalted, half musing, Glancing around me to see if anyone else has shared my experience. Afterward, when I describe what happened to me, I am told, “Yes, yes, that is as it should be— you entered the Dream. We tried, but we could not...” How privileged I am, that I might enter unaware Into the incredible Dream Time of an ancient people. I have been told that the rock paintings found deep in hidden, ancient caves, drawn on the walls by the shamans who believed the walls to be a mere membrane between them and the living being of the Earth, those pictographs placed high on ravine bulwarks to appease/please the gods are perhaps reflections of those same visions I now and then have, Those marvelous, painless explosions of radiant patterns-- curved lightning bolts that whirl across my sight in scintillating bursts, blinding me with green and white and red splendour. “Although the visions of he shaman were possibly augmented by hallucinogenic substances,” the lecturer explains, “We see a resemblance to the ocular migraine in those forms found in many of the magical drawings.” I, shaman? Why not? And if, and if... I am Shaman, then... Where is my magical drawing, where is my voice, what shall be my spell-song? I shall be Shaman-Poet, my poetry will weave the incantations, tell the story, mark my Dreaming Time, pull me, entranced, into mankind’s great Collective Unconscious, humble me before the resplendence of what humanity might have been, might still become

poetryrepairs #242 17,120:

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