The Last Beat

old, old... it's a story of musical transcendental something, I suppose... gonna rework it - love some insight from you lot.

A man stood at the top of a hill,

A man there stood, a man there, still.

A man and a sack at the top of a hill,

The sack opened at his will,

and in the sack, and in there still,

A drum for the man to strike with skill.

 

There was a hill, there was a drum, there was a man. There was a sky and there was a gentle breeze in it.

 

A man untied the knots in the cloth sack and removed the drum. In the early morning half light, he felt the tension in the goatskin and against it rubbed his palms.

 

He laid the cloth sack on the ground and carefully laid the drum,on its side, on top. He looked about. The sun was not yet up. The wispy night shroud was evaporating fast in the east. The west sky still dark and sleepy.

 

 The man drew in a deep breath, slowly. As he exhaled, slowly, evenly, his breath caught on the breeze, before dissolving in the way of the clouds.

 

Astride the drum, he sat down. He raised his arms above his head, to stretch his shoulders, and then... He listened, I listened. It takes a moment to catch the sound. That sound. The distorted hysterical cacophony, silence. Silence. tranquil, pure, natural. The sound of dead souls, a future echo of things come and gone, going.

 

The man rubbed his palms briskly and shook his wrists. Looking to the east, he raised one arm, flattened his palm and struck the drum.

 

Boom. a bass note and silence. Why is there silence? A man raised his other arm in the same way and repeated the excercise. Boom, and silence. With a count in on the high note at the edge of the skin, he began to play: Largo, things could wait.

 

The man did not hear the notes, not like I did. I wondered how loud is the voice in my head. Instead he heard the silence rising between the beats. Why is silence louder than quiet?

 

He began to build up more complex rhythms. He played hard accents to wake up the sun, which answered his call. He shut his eyes and smiled. It is possible that the smile shut his eyes. On his face he felt the warm mask and saw tangerine colours in his eyelids, as I did.

 

 The sun had risen high and forgotten the drummer. He did not mind, he had forgotten himself.

 I listened to the drummer, to the drum, to the beats and to the silence.

 

The drummer came here every day, I did not, but today is special. Today the drummer played, and played on. Today he would not stop. What is the sound of the last beat? he asked me, not for an answer, I was just the nearest set of ears. Today he wanted to find out and so did I, then, I had not wanted to know before. What a question!

 

So he drummed, and he drummed. The sun set and the sky went purple and still he played. He still played when the sun rose the next day. A complex rhythm slidng back and forth over the beat. Today the sun smiled. Today the drummer had forgotten the sun. Today the light of the sun was insignificant against the sound of the drum. I know, I was there. The drummer started: But what is the sound of the last beat!

 

The rhythm took a curious turn and doubled up again

a counter rhythm struck angrily against the beat

my stomach churned

I had never heard such a sound

Undrumlike, absurd

The drum played on with the man on top

it would not stop, for his will or word...

 

A curious tone, a change of note, 

A new rhythm begins to float.

Higher and higher the pitch did sound,

The rhythm cut loose of its ground.

From where I stood and what I see,

I startled at the vision in front of me,

Am I adream or am I awake?

Is that drum starting to shake?

Higher and higher the pitch did sound,

For my ears I could not believe,

When the bass note, so solemn and deep,

Passed out of earshot without a peep!

The drum!

 

I heard the splintering of wood,

like a giant tearing trees.

I heard the creak of the rope,

like a boat all at sea,

I heard an agonising wail,

like a thumb on a nail.

A silent rhythm set sail.

The drum!

 

The drum vibrated at every beat,

no sound uttered but instead,

A colour, scarlet!, deep red!

 

The drum reverberates with the sound of each note.

Most of this sound passes away, decays.

Some is trapped inside the drum.

On every beat, a little more succumbs..

After many days and nights,

this reverb comes into its own.

The pressure builds up and becomes pure tone.

For many more nights and as many days,

the tone shifts up and the pressure raised.

‘Til when the sound reaches a certain pitch

and not a squeak can be heard of it.

Is this the last beat? Nay! ‘tis but the first!

 

As the drum would pulse deep red,

a warm sound I would have said.

As the colour pulses yellow,

But what?, you ask of the fellow.

 

He plays on, he hears his note although we cannot,

for sound he has long forgot.

The pulsing drum glows pure green.

and a garden appears on the scene.

The pulsing drum glows pure blue,

The frozen ground show the colur true.

Indigo turns the sky to night, pulsing, pulsing,

to the left, to the right.

 

Violet. The last colour? The highest note?

as colour begins to fade away

The last beat? will we hear it today?

The beat goes on, the pressure is up.

 

A man stood at the top of a hill,

A man there stood, a man there, still.

A man and a sack at the top of a hill,

The sack opened at his will

and in the sack, and in there still

A drum for the man to strike his will

 

The earth beckoned for the man to play

The dark earth and the sky, grey.

To wake the sun at every day,

to this beat the man did play,

as he does so every day.

 

To describe the next is in vain,

even if you saw it again.

For the drum,

for the man,

for the pressure, much,

a silent sound

on the very last touch.

 

For the hand, for the skin,

for the pressure, much,

the drum exploded 

at that final touch.

 

For the finger,

for the rhythm,

for the pressure, much,

a flash of white light

on the final touch.

 

Of the Last Beat. I can't say much,

of the the thunderclap sound,

of silence imploding

of the vacuum expanding..

 

I looked at the hill,

I looked at the sky

I looked at my feet

Was not that flash of white light, 

a little... offbeat?

 

Reviews

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Off beat? How interesting that the finale is offbeat and yet the summation perhaps of the whole is of the rainbow, the feelings and the whatsoever is for that of the beforehand...a beautful undertaking - music is diffiult to surmise but you have done a wonderful job here. Thank you for sharing.
Light,
Siddartha