Was in a Ger pitched in Fukuoka and was given by a guest Mongolian
throat-singer reciting parts of a long epic about some warlord prince
and his horses. The man accompanied himself on a small three-stringed
fiddle with a horse's head carved in the top and I swear I heard the
horses gallop in battle and the hawk he sang about flying in the winter
sky. I didn't understand a thing he said, but my Mongolian students
translated the poem and my consequent greetings and thanks to him for
his amazing recital.
I've heard both Heaney and Creely read and I have to admit they weren't
very inspiring compared to this.
And for the latest, really experimental stuff, I suspect that only
juggling swords and swallowing flames would make them anything but
snore-inspiring.
Narrative and myth and skill on the part of the poet is what keeps us on
the edge of our seats. Oh yes, I've forgotten the sheer freakishness
of sound poetry. That draws our attention in the same way that the
sound of a rabbit attacked by ferrets would. I recommend a few forays
into the realm of sound poetry for Mairead if she's not sure what to do
to keep her audience interested. Jess
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