Monday, September 28, 2009

The power of chanting to the priestess of poetry


The nursery rhymes of unending skipping sound resounding from the high-rise windows and the slit walls of the kindergarten school, remains the oldest known and surest way of imparting alphabets, sounds, objects and ideas, to a classroom of children, who are freshly being opened up to the mystery of learning and acquiring all the needed skills with which to gulp up knowledge as they grow up.

The fundamental of nursery education is the very tool employed by the poet who takes after the method of the teacher, who must function as the choir master, charging out the call to chant that is automatically echoed by the pupils to glean the golden fleece home.

The chant of poetry is not any different in the hands of the priestess of poetry, the wildest of imagination engages the emotions in a celebration of words in its ever best use-in a crescendo of rising staccato that leaves the poet and its lovers in an exchange of fulfillment striking the cord of the heart into an orgasmic climax that homes the being into the soul.

From the first exercise of one trying to word to oneself or other selves, some structure of finely written poems riddled on paper, to the point where the personae or reader’s innermost cavity is filled and the exterior body overflows with interpretative high spirit, chant sails salient to the meaning of poetry which enfolds the whole conundrum of life.

In contemporary literature, poets in tameless adventure have seek mediums, not just to make poetry more relevant and alive but to bridge the TEXT to the WORD. Chant eventually aroused as the most efficient and strongest tool adopted by the priestess of poetry who led the search. To relate this is to fore mostly understand the basic of chant.

Chant is the rhythmic speaking or singing of words or sound often primarily on one or two pitches called reciting tones. it may range from a single melody involving a limited set of notes to a highly set of complex musical structures, often included a great deal of repetition of musical subphrases. Chants functions as a heightened or stylized form of speech which though exist as a genre of its own yet allies with the priestess to render, perform and execute a poem.

The priestess is that devotee poet in the shrine of poetry who is most passionate and liberal in the practice of poetry. To read a poem goes beyond the mere silent stiff absorption of the lines as text, to the lowest motion and loudest recitation celebrated in chant. It is this act that makes poetry more ritual to the self.

There exist several means and routes to approach poetry, such as writing, reading, listening,reciting, etc but to enter the altar of poetry where the priestess dwells, you must leave behind your media and gadget, to enjoy the secret powers inhabited in the realm of this veneration which is an open home to all and sundry.

When a devotee recites a poem, chant heightens the notes of mood, fires the tone, repeating the lines then drags the being(s) to where you confront your very thoughts BARED. Leaving you before yourself is the best resolution any fellow poet or seeker can derive when you read a poem.

Chanting does not change or cheapen the form of your poem, best seller or award(s)-winning poetry collections, instead it exhumes life from the dumb gawking words, rendering it, a priceless performance which creates an unusual symphony of stress, style, and state to the original form that in no little measure helps to bring a better understanding of the meaning chased by the poet and the poem itself.

No wonder when chanting a poem line, getting caught in the rhyme and rhythm, one begins to tail the beat before the long , gesturing, fingers and hands swaying on foot tapping, while others completely internalized the process before them, are entrapped into a cocoon of themselves and can only return to themselves to seek meaning.

The priestess is a seeker who lives to proffer poetry not just as an inanimate text idol stagnated on colossal forgotten shelves for some chosen cerebral minds but as a free theatre for all who quest for purification and restoration of body, mind, and soul.

Poetry is a religion, poetry is a tradition, and those whose must follow, should worship in chant and spirit.

Uche Uwadinachi(c) 2009

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coming up!!!

why do i chant poetry?

Find out in the next article
"The power of chanting to the priestess of poetry"

Wednesday, September 23, 2009



I listened
To hear aches
Beating within
The enclave of your heart,
In yearn, i wait but do not see
You close to me

A bleed stood in place of your face
...speeches were calm in a mood
That sickened my very eyes
with numerous tears from the torn sky...


Am cold...
Unable to hold
Your absent fold

Untie me
From the cloth of your pain

I wait in between the stream

Hoping to live again in your warmth.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Education, Math Made Easy

Here in full force are the published articles that Joe has written on a broad array of topics. Focused primarily in mathematics, these articles wil take you on a journey through basic math, like learning the multiplication table, to some more advanced realms, like abstract algebra. Included here as well is a collection of articles touching on some everyday topics as well as some Christian themes. Come back often to find new ones as they are published by Joe. For more information on how to sign up for free and get your wonderful guide Click Here!

Friday, September 18, 2009

Thought of the week


Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009



To secure today
In the manifesto of tomorrow,
Is to abandon
The chronicle of the past
In the anthem of mouths
And the warnings of the present
In the salute of hands.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Thought of the week


'poetry is an orphan of silence.The words never quite equal the experience behind them.'

The motherless past


The past suffers contempt
As a wandering orphan
None dares to dear
An unfamiliar wretchedness
But these many mothers
Would foster the present
With ceaseless breast suck
Like their virgin baby
Graced with a golden fur.