POETRY AND RHYTHM - part 3 - Zena Edwards workshop
including "Father Shufflemeir", the poem
If I could have three magic powers… first, I wish I could fly; second, I wish I could speak every language in the world; and third, I wish I could walk up to a group of musicians I’d never seen before, say hello, and then take over and use them as my own personal instrument, the way I’ve seen Zena Edwards do many times. Not take over like Hitler invading Poland, more like, “Hey guys, let’s have some fun…” then blending her poem/song/music with theirs.
I did a workshop with Zena about fifteen years ago. It changed my life. It was called something like ‘Poetry and Music’. It took place over two nights at the Poetry Café in London. The first night, Zena introduced us to her band, showed us what they could do, and then performed a few poems with them. The second night, we were to come with our own poems and perform with her band
I’ve since had the privilege of doing my poems with some amazing musicians, including (vainglorious name dropping here) Chris Redmond’s Tongue Fu, and the musicians of Jumoké Fashola’s Jazz Verse Jukebox at Ronnie Scots, but Zena’s band was the most magic of all. Maybe that’s just because they were the first, like that first cataclysmic acid trip that’s never equalled no matter how high the following doses – we’ve all been there, haven’t we? But I think it was more than that. The line up was fairly standard for a trio – keyboard, bass and percussion – but the instruments ranged from traditional to fuzzy computer stuff, and the way they played them came from a free-form jazz sensibility: no set key, no bars or tempo… instead, somebody makes a noise, somebody responds, and then you get a conversation going and everyone joins in. The only fixed rule is “listen well”.
I walked home from that first night ON FIRE, ablaze with the possibilities Zena had shown us. I had always been in love with the music of words, but after that first night, I realised that I had been keeping that love on a leash. I had been writing the equivalent of jazz standards. Now it was time to let loose, LISTEN to the music of the words, and follow where they led. By the time I got home, I had written most of the poem I would do the following night. I just had to write it down.
Performing on the second night, I felt like a caterpillar emerging from my cocoon with dragon wings. Here’s the poem I wrote for the workshop (wish I had a recording of the band)…
FATHER SHUFFLEMEIR
Zena Edwards is a poet and performer who uses song, movement and global influences as a jump-off for her words.
She defines the fusion of poetry and music by including traditional African-instrumentation (the Kalimba and Kora) and new technology, to create her own sound tracks for her poems and stories, producing a body of work that reaches culturally and generationally diverse audiences on an international level…
https://www.zenaedwards.com
https://literature.britishcouncil.org/writer/zena-edwards
And here’s the text of Father Shufflemeir, both the original poem that I wrote for the workshop and the second more reflective part that I wrote later…
Father Shufflemeir
instructions for the band (but only for part one)
start this lightly
in a major key
climbing and climbing, higher and higher, gradually building up momentum until you reach a crescendo and come to a sudden halt
a pause for thought
then you begin again
this time in a minor key
steady
more deliberate
an army of the dead, risen from the grave and marching for justice
father shufflemeir
could he ever kick a ball
kick a ball kick a ball
brother could he kick a ball
father could he kick a ball
football soccer ball
whatever you call it he could kick it
it was irish rules
irish american rules
which is to say no bloody rules at all
I pick up the ball and you smash me in the face and take it away then I kick you in the kneecap and take it back, there we were bleeding all over the football field and he would lift up his cassock and dance around us like an irish angel like a mad dutchman, none of us could touch him, it was only the once he did it, only to show us, only because his spirit was flying high, a little too high that day and he couldn’t rein it in, he had to let it go, let us know what he could do, what was possible, the beautiful glorious wonderful possibilities of a wild spirit of an untamed heart, I remember I remember I remember it forever because it wasn’t just a football field, it wasn’t just a game, it wasn’t just that day, it was a brief glimpse of infinity he gave us before they locked him away in a mountain stronghold, he had a wild love of true and dangerous ideas and we were dead meat on a football field waiting to grow old get drunk and fuck until he showed us the mountain top dancing in the lightning with only the stars for a limit and only one rule
to whom much is given
much is expected
he was the first in a long line of priests and nuns who led me out of the wilderness, who came down from the mountaintops of peru, back from the fields of africa, breathing fire and anger at the bastards who had murdered and pillaged their flock in the name of america the beautiful in the name of a lost russian revolution in the name of betrayed god christ crucified by his own popes cardinals and movie stars, I look at the life you led
and I am ashamed
of the little I have done
part two
but it wasn’t that simple
it couldn’t be
because you were complicit
you had to be
I guess this is part two
with no music
silent night
smell the incense
latin mass and black robes
I remember all the little things that were so wonderful
missa luba high up in the mountains
a little coal mining town just like the one my sister was born in
only this one had trees and it snowed in the winter
I was on my way to the happiest year of my life
for one whole year my heart was at peace
I did god’s will
no shoplifting
no masturbation
every morning I would talk to jesus
every night
before and after meals
and in the evening, I would study and write poetry
I had the best teachers, wonderful teachers
a college of wise young men who read diary of a country priest
and tried not to despair
I was on my way to the happiest year of my life
and we detoured to visit you up there in your lonely exile
your mountain stronghold
you played us missa luba
jesus and africa
I told you what father haspides had said
that in the seminary they called you
the mad dutchman
and you said
I won’t tell you what we called him
he’s going to be your teacher
and you must have respect
silent night
because it was all a lie
marx called it the heart of a heartless world
maybe because sometimes the heart must lie
but that doesn’t make it true
my sister never liked you