Tuesday, July 16, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: III. Dias Tres


No maracas bird, this morning,
to raise an alarm,
and the set alarm did not go off!

No time for breakfast,
neither for badly needed coffee.

Ah, the dream of coffee!
The lingering memory
of last night—the singing of
our friend Luis, the dinner,
the music,
dancing and dessert: flan—and
beautiful, rich coffee!

But the memory must suffice,
along with dried fruit:
time for class.


The intricacies of rumba
are the study of a lifetime;
a fluid language
of thought, word and deed,
of clavés, song and dance,
rising up out of the source
in exuberant expansion!

The Masters teach us
about the bembé,
and its unity of
batá, cantando and rumba party.

In the sacred batá,
the drums speak Lucumi,
the timeless language of friendship;
the drum toques call the orishas,
voicing six tones rhythmically
from three drums,
the Iyá, which is the call,
the Itótole, which is the response,
and the
Okónkolo, which is the time regulator.

But this is already too complex;
it is best just to remember
that drums, singing and dance
speak as a single voice.

How can the uninitiated
gain the key to this mystery?

The Masters, they know best;
they are patient and gentle;
to learn about the role of each drum,
they teach us clavé,
the timeless syncopated
two plus three,
or three plus two
pulses of son or columbia forms;
with their guidance,
the clavés transform
from hardwood in our hands
to heartbeat.

The crashing of our small victory
attracts the attention of passersby,
who press their faces against the window:
these songs, we know them well,
but who are these that try to sing them?

The granddaughter of Jesus
does the dance with us,
but has much better form.

This does not dim the joy of our progress;
the sun is bright on the Alameda
as we take our leave
—we feel we have earned our lunch!

Lynne, Dale, Amelie and Elisabeth
decided on the top floor
of Los Nardos;
there we split mixed grill platters,
reveled in the plantains,
delighted in the flan,
and the coffee.

Rushing back to the Hotel Plaza,
we gather our wits,
along with our music;
the tour bus has magically appeared.

To school we go,
in a neighborhood near La Rampa;
there we are met by a motorcyclist,
whose sidecar holds
a keyboard electric.

The instrument once assembled,
the singers assemble also;
we mingle with the young ladies
of Ensemble Choral Luna.

For them, we sing Barasuayo;
for us, they sing Java Jive,
with a Spanish accent;
then we sing Battle of Jericho,
and they sing a fantastic piece
we would love to learn!!

We rest for a moment,
the room warm,
yet cooled by a cross-breeze
through the open windows;
even so,
there is the snap
the cooling swish
of fans,
ancient technology from Spain,
by way of China
[few people, least of all Cubans,
know there is a Hand Fan museum
in Healdsburg, California].

We end our engagement
by mixing to share
Guantanamera.

The keyboard is disassembled
and returned to its origin
via the sidecar on the motorcycle;
both groups enter the bus,
and we are conveyed to Hotel Nacional,
where the ladies have an evening concert.

Coconut palms tower over coral stone
pavements: we walk on fossil record,
feeling cool breezes off the Caribbean Sea.

What more could we do today?

Ah, but there is still dinner to be savored.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen


batá: set of three ethnic, sacred drums ceremonially used in the Santeria faith; these drums have their cultural origin in Yorùbá.
bembé: a Santeria ceremony that includes drumming, chanting and dance.
cantando: song.
columbia: a clavé rhythm also identified as a style of rumba
clavés: two hardwood sticks that beat the 2+3 or 3+2 rhythms key to the rumba polyrhythms
iyá: the largest of the batá drums, the “mother” drum
itótole: the middle sized of the batá drums, the “father” drum
lucumi: a Yorùbá dialect and the liturgical language of Santería
okónkolo: the smallest of the batá drums, the “baby” drum
orishas: a spirit or deity reflecting a manifestation of God in the Yorùbá spiritual system
rumba: a variety of Afro-Cuban dances
son: a clavé rhythm also identified as a style of rumba
toques: rhythm suites played during Santeria rituals



Tuesday, July 2, 2013

La Habana, en versos libres: II. Dias Dos


Soon after the late night cabaret,
sooner than sleep, a mere dream,
sooner than rest can hold
the slumbering heart,
morning arrives.

Few people realize
there is a bird
that makes a sound
very like maracas,
but there it is,
in the second floor courtyard
of the Hotel Plaza,
making sure all sleepers awake.

Some of us stagger upstairs,
where breakfast and sun can greet us,
but not coffee.

Then we run
down the very same streets
as yesterday,
to a small restaurant;
we are here to learn
a truer nature of song:
song is
rhythm is
dance is
música folklórica
is one,
singular,
divine act
--this is, of course,
a revelation.

Afterward,
rushing to find lunch,
with all the people
rushing to find lunch;
rushing to find water
with all the people
rushing to find water
--these take much of the day;
I prefer the agua sin gas,
por favor
.

A smaller walking tour,
to find reliable shops
and cadecas
takes longer than expected,
but we should all know better
--we are on Habana time.

Rushing into rehearsal,
we reinhabit
our soul journey songs.

The Spirit of Possibility
flies through one open portal
and out another,
a blessing on our efforts;
She is a songbird, of course,
and all the windows of Cuba
are open to Her.

The compositor de la música
has come to hear us
as we sing his music;
he is very formal,
but he did accept
our dinner invitation.

A shower of watery joy
bursts upon the terrace
and on all the city,
when the practice is done,
but we must run again,
to dress for evening
and catch the tour bus
that will take us
to meet our evening plans.

Under gathering storm clouds,
and rumbling thunder
immediately overhead,
the tour bus swallowed us up,
just as the rain begins again.

To Casa del Amistad
we go, for more,
but no mere music,
greeted as we are by
Orquesta Enrique Jorrin,
the legacy left by
the inventor of the cha cha cha.

A storm ensues,
perhaps a sign
that Changó
has joined the party.

Dinner, chicken or fish,
attracts a few stray cats,
who become beneficiaries
of a surreptitious largesse.

The ubiquitous mojitos,
followed by agua con gas,
Cocacola and bottles of Havana Club,
mix as you will.

We sang and danced
under storming skies,
we ate and drank;
the best parties
are those where
the stray cats are fed and
the servers also dance
to the magic of the music.

The storm passed,
the sunset was glorious,
and so was our evening,
our exchange of joy
in celebration
of musical meetings,
however fleeting.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

La Habana, en versos libres: I. Dias Uno


Sharing gum on the plane,
preparing for sweetness,
drinking Fanta in the sky.

Applause erupts
as the wheels touch down;
“Thank-you for flying Sky King”,
Welcome to Habana.

The Chinese made tram,
carrying us from tarmac to terminal,
is new and smooth,
the Aeropuerto Nacional
is old and worn.

One guard only
scans the luggage
and shrink-wrapped goods,
but two guards
mind the spaniels on duty;
maybe petting is not allowed,
although they seem friendly.

At the Hotel Plaza,
mojitos await at the counter,
but the rooms are not ready
until after four o’clock.

A walking tour ensues
over La Habana vieja,
footsteps treading over footsteps
in this place bursting with sound
and with color
in the fluid heat.

Opulence interrupted,
nonetheless,
this city has been alive;
though the faces and facades are worn,
vital blood and sugar still flow,
likewise the rum,
sold through open window shops.

The staccato of the tongues
and car horns
is like the beat of ageless drums;
this old town is kept new
by the child
beating on the drum
for our pleasure,
corazón of our corazón.

Lunch at Hotel Inglettera
incurs petty robbery loss,
while the salsa plays
and the Buccanero flows;
opportunities overflow
even in the most crowded room.

Transports from other ages
race all over town;
the racket and the fumes,
with the heat and humidity,
they roll over one,
as they settle on each edifice
and make their mark.

More to see,
more to do,
more to say,
but first to sing,
in this place
of unending song.



© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Saturday, May 18, 2013

The Day We Were Together


It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one,
and Holy Heaven opened above us,
a place so vast it overflowed,
pouring down flaming, music-like wind
on our eyes, our ears, our hearts,
and when we spoke,
it was as if we were one being,
speaking in all the tongues of humanity.

Together, we thought,
“Woe is me! I have gone mad!
I am among crazy people!”

But a collective thought-stream commenced:
Sad it is that I must remind you:
I have created you and blessed you;
I have given you a heart of flesh.

Hear, and now understand,
See, and now perceive,
Be healed, now,
and go to share the news!

Mistake not fulfillment
for drunkenness;
your purpose is,

and has always been,
to love one another
 in thought, word and deed,
in dreams and in reality,

to love is to serve.

Rejoice and be Glad!

It was the day we were together,
perhaps the only one.
Do you remember?
Or was it just a dream?

             *****

Prayers of the People on Pentecost

To Holy Wisdom, that came
In silence, wind and flame,
We lift our prayers, saying:
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

As we bring forth our different faces, colors, gifts and voices,
Please guide our vision, our work, our ministries and choices.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

Strengthen your ministers, ordained and lay, all,
To heed what our minds, hearts and covenant call.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

Move those who govern beyond profit, loss and liability;
Guide them to uphold freedom, truth, justice and dignity.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

Guide us in the sustainable use and care
of this Earth, our planetary ecosystem so rare.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

Bring comfort to those with any concern or need;
            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)
Support every earnest thought word and deed.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

We offer thanks for every blessing and beauty;
            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)
May our gratitude show forth as joy in our duty.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead us with your Spirit!

We pray for those who have died and those who mourn;
            (that you may now name, silently or aloud)
May they be wrapped in Peace; may their spirits be upborne.
            Holy Wisdom,
            Lead them with your Spirit!

With one accord, in unity, and in all the voices of humanity,
Let us say: Amen.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

From Isaiah 6 to Acts 2, in places near and far, love has been declared the common language. 

What will you do to celebrate?

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Gathering Wool


Anytime, when the wind dies down,
or even when the moon is full,
when music flows from simple sound,
it’s time to gather wool.

Following pools of brighter light,
from one to another and on,
all for the improvement of sight,
and listening for snippets of song,

When flow has turned off-aligned,
people will talk, unraveling day and way;
all is valuable wool, left behind,
knowledge for plucking, as you may.

Life’s bushes, brambles and thickets catch
this knowing, framed in time and set,
just waiting for a mind whose match
is equal in need for it to be met,

Thence to be combed, carded and spun
into threads to be warp/weft woven
into tapestry mantles, to be won
—not bought—by the fittingly behoven.

Opening the senses to signs and sound,
even gooseflesh may be destined to pull;
tuned to low band, treasure may be found
by simply gathering wool.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Birdsong


The bird sang,
singing to the beauty of day and light,
from the afternoon through the night,
and this sweet music was the very last,
the most utterly sweetest collection of sounds of all,
and why Jesus wept.

Hearing the sweet song,
he remembered the time before time,
he remembered the Artist forming time
and all being, and being formed within and from it all
—and though he knew that the bird could not know this,
he and the bird and the song would meet in Paradise.

And thus it was that,
on the third day,
the sun rose,
and the bird sang for joy,
and the bird’s song was heard
both in this world and all the others.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Saturday, March 30, 2013

The Day That Got Away


A festival:
a day of joy,
of laughter and song,
and girls strewing flowers
before an endless procession
of light and laughter
mixing with gentle breezes
to fill the air with community.

Suddenly,
the noonday sun clouded over,
and the day started to get away;
tensions flared,
fights broke out,
blame was laid,
a friend accused falsely.

The procession,
now hostile,
led by police,
marched the prisoner
from one place to another;
tried by officials,
tried by the public,
the prisoner soon convicted
by opinion,
then summarily executed
for the public good. 

Can an idea
(of compassionate community)
really be so wrong?

Gentle breezes
continue to fill the air
of our public square,
empty now and quiet;
that day of joy
has now become
a day of mourning.

Even so,
flowers continue to bloom
under the watchful eye
of a blameless sun.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen