Bathed In the Beat of Feral Drums

The pounding, pounding hands beginning to pain right in the knuckles. A drum skin, stretched taught, sings proud steady songs in the night. The only other percussion is the crackle of pine fire. Hissing,spitting, little bursts of chemical energy.

I close my eyes, enveloped in self-induced darkness. The beat slows. My heart slows. My breathing-

slows.

A blank vibration. A sinusoidal curve. A door.

Push, through, the woods are gone.

Trees of energy. My people are light. I see their lungs, the organic electricity of breathing. They're one. They're one.

Cry!

Feral sounds.

They snarl with me.

The drum is long gone, but it's still playing somewhere in my peripherals. The ground shakes.

My tribe is pounding the earth. Music, music in time.

Fire leaps, leaves.

Circles spinning down to earth. We quiet, whispering, slithering.

Return to the dirt and mud and woods.

epiphanyfusion epiphanyfusion
18-21, F
2 Responses Mar 11, 2009

Ha ha, life. I go to an incredibly alternative college and took a 1 credit class on Shamanism. It was a lot of fun, very opening, and I've made some fast friends who love the drums, fire, and ritual.

This could be a very good poem. You have certainly caught a lot of the essence of a shaman experience. Based on life or imagination?