IN HIS NAME

IN HIS NAME

Little Richard dies and the world seems

To slide slightly further, free of his pounding

Hands on the keyboard, even steady floors

Seem to shift, as he summoned in a new age

Beside Berry, Holly and Presley,

Now, no new movement drives us, 

With a commensurate state of uplift.

Little Richard dies and the world

Starts to seem that much smaller.

And not even because it is housebound,

But because of the colour it lacks,

Which has nothing to do with the skin

But with what is released through

Our living: What Richard Penniman

Spent was a sunburst as both song

And singing was his personal form

Of attack. What rages he fought,

Against fun and faith, which both claimed

Him; his evangelism came after the sexual

Voyeurism he enjoyed. As he led many men

To his love and then to his own private

Chambers; a Wop-bam-boom Tutti Frutti,

For a Len and Lucille: life as toy.

Little Richard dies and that life

That whooped and whipped from him,

Exposes our own stooped shortcomings

At this time of impotence and held breath.

As Penniman sits at the pit piano to play

The Glory March for all angels,

It seems that the connecting theme and deep

Spirit that might yet save us all rests with

Death. Which it always has, let’s be frank.

For that unheard tune sets throats clearing.

Fingers are stretched. Strings are tested.

Keys lightly flipped, as wrists click.

And a small man who sang with both

Exuberance and excitement, is reminding

Us through his passing of a stance

And stature we’re losing; for that fact alone

And rhyme’s reason I could now use

A poet’s pun, or cheap trick. The expected

Joke is inferred, but it isn’t the point

Of the poem. The point of the poem is totems,

Or emblems perhaps for a world - in a hole

On which no spinning groove can be placed

As we surrender ourselves to the pixel,

And the aspects within diagram or dissect

Us into patterns or points of control.

Little Richard dies and removed,

Are all the scene shaping artists:

From Cohen, and Bowie, to Prince,

John Coltrane. Miles Davis. Hendrix. 

Buddy Holly. John Lennon. I could fill

This page with more losses and naturally,

Everyone will have their own names.

But as they leave they tear off

A further piece of the fabric. 

For what was once a full blanket

Has now become a thin cover sheet. 

So we must play them now all the more,

To spin and return the past to us.

Music and song does this freely.

As the transformation feels more complete. 

So Little Richard dies and the large

Must be found within our small moments.

We must chorus in and remember

What harmony is through solos.

Somehow a rhythm will come, and when

It does, the cry claims us. As tears of joy

Find Melisma, in which one syllable’s sung

Across a series of notes as love flows.

Its common in gospel, and pop and Opera,

Too, for that matter: a sung word containing

All emotion and hope through sound’s spell.

So tilt your head, holler, howl and raise

Your foot up and remember: for Little Richard

Stands taller, as we will too, when life’s well.

At the moment, life’s sick.

And there are people out of tune

Who are playing. Drown them out.

Surface. For now Richard has joined

All of those playing for us through

Darkness. Their triumphs

Protect us. Big Dick is dead.

Defy Hell.

David Erdos, May 10th 2020

For more poems from David Erdos visit The Corona Diaries collection 

David Erdos is an actor, writer, director with over 300 professional credits. He is a published poet, playwright, essayist and illustrator. He has lectured on all disciplines in theatre and film for leading performing arts colleges, schools and universities around the world. His books include EASY VERSES FOR DIFFICULT TIMES, THE SCAR ON THE CLOUD, OIL ON SILVER, NEWS FROM MARS, CHANGING PLACES WITH LIGHT (penniless press) and BYZANTIUM with the photographer Max Reeves. He is a contributing editor for The International Times and maker of documentaries all over the world. David’s work has been acclaimed by many leading figures including Harold Pinter, Heathcote Williams, Alan Moore, Andrew Kotting, Chris Petit and Iain Sinclair in whose recent book THE LAST LONDON, David features. He can be reached at David.erdos@sky.com.

David Erdos

©    David Erdos has asserted his moral rights as author of his work and has full copyright.