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Jeff BeardwoodBiographyLanguage is a Martial ArtI was walking down the street minding my own business when I was confronted by a Ninja.I didn't know where he came from, which told me he was good at his craft. "Whaaaaa!"said the Ninja, as they are wont to do. "Hello," said I. Clearly he was expecting a different reaction. "I am a trained assassin and a Master of martial arts," said the Ninja, "why are you not worried?" "I am also a Master of martial arts." The Ninja laughed. "Which martial art are you a Master of?" "Language." "Language?" "Yes." "Language is not a martial art." "It can be." Impatiently, the Ninja explained his credentials to kill or maim me. "I have studied many different martial arts. For example, I know Kung Fu." "I have also studied the classics, to have a sound foundation to build upon. I adored Hamlet." "I have done Tai Chi for years." "Tai Chi is poetry. I have been a poet all of my life." The stone-faced Ninja shook his head in frustration. "How can you say practicing Tai Chi and being a poet are the same?" "They both involve form and grace and beauty, do they not?" "This is nonsense. Do you believe I can break your legs with my little finger?" Now it was my turn to laugh. "Perhaps. But I have known a single word to break a heart." "I can kick through solid bricks!" "Impractical. I can find another way around the wall."" "What kind of martial art do you think that mirrors?" "That was Wit. Perhaps that is most like Aikido." "How so?" "It is the skill of using the other person's momentum to deflect their intent and shift their balance." I could see the Ninja's resolve wavering a little. How could Language be a martial art? "The trick is, even though words can be lethal, they are best suited to building and creating. Language can bring wisdom, it can transform, it can be spiritual...martial arts are wasted on assassins." Until that moment, I believe the Ninja had never said, "ouch." And Language IS a martial art. © copyright JA Beardwood Orange Pulp FictionLuscious sweet and sensuousMorning dew, sticky and fragrant Puckers the sides of my mouth At first taste At first light Juice rolling down my throat Energy broils, slips, builds, trickles Citric Explosions Flesh pulp Light and joyous movement Circling a dance of creation Electric light and color Settles in my belly © copyright JA Beardwood Aisle 7, Seats G & HMusicOf any genre Was never meant to be a passive experience! Dreams woven With midnight drums and firelight An intense beat Seduces us willingly To fits of passion An intricate melody Curls around our imaginations Like the smokey air In our favorite club Wreathes the stage Yet here in the concert hall They present an evening of blues and jazz As a zoo presents a "wild" animal In a simulated habitat How can the patrons be still Waiting for the "right" moment to applaud? Music doesn't lend itself willingly to such polite applause! It is about immersion In a greater tide Eliciting ecstatic whoops and whistles Hands raised above the heart Daresay even above the head Clapping a spontaneous rhythmic celebration Most of all Music demands movement... The toe must tap The body must flow Do not, new lovers, When they embrace, Find the pace of their common rhythm; Sway to their unique unheard tune? Deep in our forgotten past Which of this inseparable twining Came first? Did grace of movement First inspire us to consciously make beat and rhythm Or the other way around? Back in the concert hall Amidst stoic frowns, The starched crackling Of restrictive garments Poised to applaud on cue Two music lovers Surrender to abandon Stomp and cheer Breathe sudden, improbably life Into Aisle 7, Seats G & H The musicians are the first to smile Respond Serenade Improvisation is the lifeblood of music flowing freely Inspiring fresh, creative tangents, Radical experimentation The musicians pour themselves Willingly into the moment In collusion with Aisle 7, Seats G & H Until even the most stodgy Brittle suit in the house Has suffered a moment Of spontaneous eruption A purely accidental collaboration Between listeners and musicians Art imitates life, right? Why do you think movies have soundtracks If not in imitation Of the way Rhythm and beat Are imprinted on our own memories? Like the powerful memory Of the night in that concert hall When we sat up close to the stage Almost close enough To see the band leader wink At Aisle 7, Seats G & H © copyright JA Beardwood When the Music StoppedMy first dance partner carried meIn her womb Then in her arms Imprinted love with soft flowing notes On my earliest moments Music was a joy Sorrows befell her, Misfortune visited all too often for a time As shattered glass raining down Upon lonely streets Music became a mighty shield Borne with pride A balm against life's painful moments Wielded fiercely A source of power Inwardly I worried about this change. Followed my own musical loves and fancies How often have you told me The song you want sung at your funeral? Subtly changing its place in my heart forever My first soft tears over music Years passed Sadness lingered, power diminished Songs of old Blended hurt and nostalgia With the dulling effects of liquor Until enough time had passed You danced no more The only lines you sang aloud Made me flinch to hear them So bitter was their burden Misfortune blossomed to full circumstance As deep tragedy When your partner took his own life Everyone comments on your deep strength How well you've held up And outwardly it appears so. You'll never talk to me about what you've been through Perhaps you'll never tell another living soul Except that day I casually asked If you'd like to go see a performer you used to adore. "I don't really listen to music anymore" Your tone was equally casual But I glimpsed a deeper truth in your heart. In that instant I knew Exactly when the music stopped. As if you believed you could empty all of your memories Into those weighted verses Then release them forever An ingenious act of self preservation No matter how many tears I've shed over the realization © copyright JA Beardwood Copyright © Jeff Beardwood 2009 All rights reserved. Send private comments to author: jbeardwood@gmail.com
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