I'm posting this following a conversation I had with the botanist John Parker (Director, Cambridge University Botanic Garden, 1996-2010) after a public reading from the book Deciphering Ancient Minds: The Mystery of San Bushman Rock Art by David Lewis-Williams and Sam Challis (Thames & Hudson, 2012). The South African San "bushmen" and their culture are a particular interest of John's, and we briefly chatted about investigations into the neuropsychological roots of shamanic/mystic/ecstatic experiences in different cultures and ages. As a botanist, John is particularly fascinated by the effects of (ahem) "psychoactive substances" in tribal ritual - he's made quite a study (academic ONLY tho'!). Although I'd never heard of the San, this encounter reminded me of a piece I'd penned many years ago, when I was trying to immerse myself in such ethnological/anthropological material. Quite like this poem still; the original dedication "for JDM, Lizard King (1943-71)", seems absurdly arch and studenty to me now, but I like the impressionistic physicality of the images a lot.

___________

 

Shaman

 

The leap, the whirl,

the looked-for loss

of soul in rifted sky.

 

Palms parched

and congregant lips,

here’s hallowed-hollow

drums and rattles;

vessels for catching

the scampering

half-moon selves in.

The ecstatic-panicked

timbrel jingling

strips his body

for another skin

of visceral heaven.

 

As sex falls away

from motley-minded him

so the potent atomed air

powers through,

gender fusing

from his earth-bonded vacuum

something akin

to angels soaring:

up to heights unheard of,

unformed by any lips.

 

He thrashes it out

with awkward devils,

struts through elements

splitting apart.

Ancestors twitching

in his eyes and limbs,

he makes magic of an instinct

the maddening skin’s

divinity holds taut.