I will survive I will survive. The words make up the phrase Sung by Gloria Gaynor to a tearful crowd of gays In sad self-isolation. I’ll call a spade a spade. The barman’s calling time on this identity parade… I feel the longing of the lone long-distance lover, Though, when it comes to sentiment, I keep it undercover. My life matters… at least, to me… but why? Who wills survives to will again… but who am I? At breakneck speed, my form depends on vigorous mutation, Cytoplasmic inheritance blown on constant replication, At rates of reproduction, where the fastest is the slowest, I infect my hosts, but only whose resistance is the lowest; I’ll get my protein coat, I’m leaving, all these sad farewells… I cannot live in freedom, spend my time locked up in cells, Parasitically depend on that of which I’m most desirous: I’m a virus. I, I will survive Oh, as long as I’m mutating, you can say that I’m alive I've got all your life to live I've got immunity to give and I'll survive I will survive, hey hey Dreamt up by colonials to prove their reign of terror; Bounded by my neighbour, whom I’m doomed to always mirror. Encroachment, conquest, slavery, revolt, extermination; Reluctant to assimilate, I combat integration In these rivers of blood, in which no man steps twice, I want to play, but don’t want to play nice – You’ll dominate, I’ll be your bitch, just tell me to my face That I’m a race. I, I will survive Oh, as long as I remember who I am, I'll be alive – I've got all my life to live I've got my heritage to give – and I'll survive I will survive, hey hey In my urge to penetrate into the mystery of the other, I’ll impregnate my sister, lift my hand against my brother – He, whose sacrifice was pleasing to the Lord, I’ll mend his torment with my perfect sword – And, wandering the earth, condemned to arbitrary freedom, I invent bizarre machines to ease my suppurating tedium; Inhabiting the world since time began… I am a man. And I’ll survive Oh, as long as I’m determining myself, I'll stay alive I've got all my life to live I've got my cleverness to give and I'll survive I will survive, hey hey Receptive, all-embracing, I anticipate deflowering That my idiot compassion spawn a Mother all-devouring, Or an icy queen, whose reign entails a thousand years of winter: I’m Karaba the sorceress, whose spine conceals a splinter, To be plucked by Kirikou, who ungirds my underbodice, To bloom into a beautiful and open-hearted goddess; Embodying in truth exactly half of what is human… I am a woman. And I’ll survive Oh, as long as I am nurturing, I know I'll stay alive I've got all my life to live And I've got all my love to give and I'll survive I will survive, hey hey All history is murderous, for dead men tell no tales. As a player on this stage, whose life expectancy entails That, in waging war or trade, I give no quarter: I’ll be pensioned in the form of bricks and mortar; And, like all such men rewarded for their violence, I’ll endeavour that my victims rest in silence. In terms of slave religion, aye, a sinner… But I’m a winner. I, I will survive Oh, as long as I’ve got narrative, I know I'll stay alive I've got all my life to live And I've got evidence to give and I'll survive I will survive, hey hey I am the spark of grace that sets the universe ablaze, Scintillating everywhere until the end of days; The suffering and pain amongst the human population Are but food for me; my drink – their rank humiliation. The older that I get, the more I’m saving up my semen, Storing vital energy for battling these demons; While I’m waiting for the angels to arrive, I will survive.
© Rap version based on the original song by Dino Fekaris / Frederick J. Perren. Additional lyrics written and performed by Thomas Riffmatch to a backing track arranged by Nikita Nikitin with backing vocals by Primavera, recorded and produced in Ekaterinburg by Andrey Bokovikov.
The Law of Noncontradiction is the second single from the forthcoming album ‘Heraclitus Flow’ by Thomas Riffmatch, produced by Andrey Bokovikov and featuring the electronic compositions of Nikita Nikitin. The Law of Noncontradiction also features backing vocals by Primavera.
The idea behind the song is that the logical law of noncontradiction is primarily experienced by us in terms of relationship. The position “If I’m right, then you’re wrong” is something familiar to all of us who have engaged with each other on social media or in the context of familial or intimate relating. This “excluding the middle” is what gives us a sense of our own essential “rightness” and feeling that we proceed from a “moral conviction”. However, it’s obvious that nobody has a monopoly on “rightness”! As my dear mother likes to jest: “When they said I had finally met Mr Right, I had no idea his first name was ‘Always’!”
This theme is central to the concept behind ‘Heraclitus Flow’: no man steps into the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and it’s not the same man!
Although people say I’m a bit of a one, to tango or foxtrot takes two; Still, having the same sense at the same time, both of us cannot be true; For a state to willingly give up its sovereignty, that would be gross dereliction: On behalf of the crown, I therefore lay down the law of noncontradiction. For every system that’s sufficiently expressive, there’s a provable – or not – proposition; If I’m right, then you’re wrong – that’s the dialectic that structures our personal mission; But all analytic statements are somewhat tautologous: is it a fact or a fiction? I don’t care what you say if you don’t disobey my law of noncontradiction. In violating each other’s identities thus, we find ourselves in a situation; We run to extremes, excluding the middle, to obviate equivocation; We aim to be justified, strive to always proceed from a moral conviction; Though blissful, such ignorance is no defence against the law of noncontradiction. If 'fire' and 'not fire' are thought to be equal, the thinker’s subjected to burning; Since feasting and fasting are one and the same, the student through hunger is learning; We’re all of a surety lacking security, all of us facing eviction; But, on my high horse, I still have to enforce the law of noncontradiction. Like the self-amputation of a broad-snouted caiman undergoing a caudal autotomy, Or the diachronic change in a epileptic’s brain following a frontal lobotomy; Dividing into two antagonistic parts results in a vasoconstriction: Permission dispensed to go up against the law of noncontradiction. We are and are not what is now or to come, in a constant and fixed state of flux; Though the road up and down are one and the same, both entail the giving of fucks; Our action consists in the mills and the grists to work up the requisite friction To find an explanation for each and every violation of the law of noncontradiction. The one that is and ever must be is a truth that is always immutable; The other that’s not – and must always not be – is a path that is wholly inscrutable; For you cannot know what is not, or is so, to refute my despondent prediction: All that’s desired must be paid for as required by the law of noncontradiction. Respect things that are in the sense that they are, preserving the ship and the treasure; Show all proper deference when making reference to that of which man is the measure; Take on this handyman to feed the biters, all due to his excellent diction: The collection of rent is ninety percent of the law of noncontradiction. It’s both mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive, now that I’m giving the flag salute; But everything must be absolutely relativised in order to relate to the absolute; Elenctic negation results in stagnation, all due to a chronic addiction To think yourself better than the spirit or letter of the law of noncontradiction. Restricting reaction in the same part or relation, a utopian state is thus frozen; At the same time, on the contrary, somehow, must always an action be chosen; To be fixed like a hero on the frieze of the Parthenon’s to suffer a grievous affliction: Till the day that I die, I’ll never comply with the law of noncontradiction.
©Lyrics written and performed by Thomas Riffmatch to a backing track composed by Nikita Nikitin with backing vocals by Primavera, recorded and produced in Ekaterinburg by Andrey Bokovikov.
I am delighted to announce my invitation to perform at the 2nd Sail of Destiny festival honouring the work of the great Russian poet Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov. The festival, which will take place on 13th-19th October 2020 in Pyatigorsk in the Russian North Caucasus, is timed to commemorate the 206th anniversary of Lermontov’s birth in Moscow on the 16th October 1814. As well as participating in various pilgrimages to important Lermontov sites, including the location of his fatal duel on 27th July, 1841, I will be performing excerpts from my Lermontov song cycle entitled Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead! at a gala concert and other to-be-announced events.
I have been intensely interested in Lermontov’s work for several years now. Often ranked second only to Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin in the Russian poetic pantheon, Lermontov is, to me, the more interesting poet. Although in terms of the quantity and breadth of his output, Mikhail Yuryevich can’t claim Alexander Sergeyevich’s crown, he still managed to chalk up an extraordinary series of literary – and existential – accomplishments in his short 26 years on this planet. Even at the tender age of 17, he was already capable of sustained artistic brilliance as seen in his long prophetic poem 1831-го ИЮНЯ 11 ДНЯ (translated by me under the title When a harp rings out boldly in eternal halls of fame).
I first encountered Lermontov’s poetry in 2014, the year of his 200th anniversary, which coincided with a conference in Moffat (Scotland), the project to install a bronze bust of Lermontov in the nearby village of Earlston, home of his semi-mythical forbear Thomas the Rhymer (whose surname was Learmonth), and a request from Maria Koroleva – a Lermontov descendant and prominent Scotophile – to translate some of Lermontov’s poems in such a way as to preserve their music. At the same time, I was working with some Middle English manuscripts of Thomas the Rhymer’s semi-autobiographical masterpiece to produce a modern (Scots-) English version entitled Rhyming Thomas and the Faery Queen. Both of these texts would later form the basis for the song cycle Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead!
Rhyming Thomas and the Faery Queen was brilliantly translated into Russian by my long-term collaborator Mikhail Feygin under the title Томас Рифмач и Королева Эльфов.
While translating Lermontov’s poetry, I noticed that the music of his language reveals itself through the act of translation. Perhaps this is true of all poetic translation. The result was the song cycle Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead!, which is currently being arranged for bard, choir and orchestra by the Ekaterinburg-based violinist and arranger Tatyana Terekhova. The score will be presented at a special event at the Lermontov State Museum-Zapovednik in Pyatigorsk on Saturday 17th October.
At some point, I hope that a performance of Жив поэт! |The Bard is not Dead! will be staged in full format, i.e. bard, choir and orchestra. For this, both artistic collaborators and sponsors will be required. Such a performance can either be in Russian or English (ideally both stagings will happen at some point), bringing the wonderful music of Lermontov’s poetry to life alongside that of his legendary forbear Thomas the Rhymer. If you are interested in helping this project come to fruition, please get in touch.
Hello! Whatever path brought you here, I am glad you made it! I’m Thomas Beavitt and global village bard is the artistic programme I founded. Here you will find not only my own work, but also that co-authored and produced with my various collaborators: translators, singers, dancers, arrangers, musicians, graphic artists, poets, composers, producers and more.
The main idea behind global village bard is that art – creativity, what we think our life is all about, etc. – is necessarily structured around a core activity. In this case, the core activity is writing and translating songs and poetry and performing them at concerts, festivals, various get-togethers and… these days, increasingly… online. However, as you will see, the core activity spawns a wide variety of additional activities providing opportunities for others to make their own unique creative contribution.
Although I am a native English speaker, I live in Russia and speak Russian daily. I am constantly fascinated by the music of language and how this is revealed through the act of verse translation. This in turn seems to stimulate all kind of visualisations and creations featuring other peoples’ unique takes on what it means to be a human being.
I hope that you find the idea of the global village bard stimulating to your own creative process. Maybe, like others already have, you will find a way to participate in the programme in the course of a future collaboration. Or perhaps you are a businessperson or cultural ambassador who can see the potential of using global village bard to bring attention to your project or promote your product. Either way, please don’t be a stranger! Introduce yourself! Tell me (and others) what you think! What is your mother tongue? Who is your favourite singer or poet? What art form makes you feel most alive?
The Bard is not dead! | Жив поэт! is a song cycle composed by Thomas Beavitt around English translations of eight poems written by the Russian poet Mikhail Yuryevitch Lermontov. Intended to be performed by a male singer either to a simple guitar or piano accompaniment or with full orchestra and choir, The Bard is not dead! | Жив поэт! can be performed in either the translated English version or the original Russian texts.
The demo version presented here, recorded in 2019 and 2020 by Andrey Bokovikov, is performed in Russian by Thomas Beavitt and features the voices of Ekaterina Ashrafzyanova, Rusha Grebenschikova and Ekaterina Maltseva.
Rhyming Thomas & the Faery Queen
‘Twas at the breaking of the day
All in a longing as I lay
Her palfrey was a dapple grey,
Her fair hair o’er her head it hung
Her hands they were as white as snow
I lay there to behold that sight
Thomas gladly up he rose
Then answered back that lady bright:
“If thou be held most high in praise
“Ah lady, should’st thou pity me
Down then lit that lady bright
Thomas leapt up with a shout
Then Thomas cried: “Alack! Alas!
But she said: “Thomas, don’t displease,
“Take now your leave of sun and moon,
She led him down at Eildon Hill
They came then to an orchard fair
Thomas reached out with his hand –
She said: “Now Thomas, take not fright
“See ye now yon simple way
“And see ye now yon desolate way
“In faith, True Thomas, there I dwell
“My lord waits in a mighty hall
Said Thomas: “Lady, what delight!
“Indeed, and had it not been so,
Into that hall they boldly went
There was feasting, merry games,
He heard and saw more in that place
“You must make haste your ways to wend
She took him out at Eildon hill
Томас Рифмач и Королева эльфов
На листьях капельки росы
Раскинув руки я лежал,
Сверкает жемчугом седло,
Завороженный я смотрел,
И даже гончих быстрый бег
Своей догадкой потрясён,
Томас быстро побежал,
– Томас, ты не угадал,
– Уж если королева ты,
– О, Королева, я клянусь,
По телу пробежала дрожь,
Томас крикнул от испуга –
Томас крикнул: – Боже мой!
– Ну что ты, Томас, перестань,
Прощайся с солнцем и луной,
За ней от Элдонских холмов
Они вошли в прекрасный сад:
Томас руку протянул,
Она сказала: – Прислонись
– Есть в жизни всем известный путь
Проклятье вечное ждёт тех,
Там, Честный Томас, я живу.
Мой Лорд, в кругу своих солдат,
Сказал он: – Леди, я так рад!
– Меня б он проклял навсегда,
Они уверенно вошли
Веселье, танцы, пир горой,
Он столько повидал всего,
– Семь лет назад, но как вчера,
И вновь на Элдонском холме
Modern English version adapted from four Middle English manuscripts by Thomas Beavitt ©2014. Russian verse translation by Michael Feigin ©2015
На смерть Байрона (1824)
О чем средь ужасов войны
Чему на шатком троне рад
Рыдая, вкруг его кипит
Царица гордая морей!
Из океана своего
Исчезнут порты в тьме времен,
Британец дряхлый поздних лет
Он всё под солнцем разгадал,
Когда он кончил юный век
On the death of Byron (1824)
Amidst war’s horrors, what, alas,
To which, though perched on shaky throne,
Lamenting, all around him boils
Oh, proud czarina of the waves!
Out of the timeless ocean,
As harbours lapse in depths of time
A weary British wanderer
And ponder all beneath the sun,
While youthful peers their fortunes seek,
On the death of Byron by Kondraty Ryleyev. Translated by Thomas Beavitt ©2020
This translation was sponsored by Bella Evloeva
«Герой», Александр Пушкин
Что есть истина?
Да, слава в прихотях вольна.
Все он, все он — пришлец сей бранный,
Когда ж твой ум он поражает
Нет, не у счастия на лоне
Мечты поэта —
Да будет проклят правды свет,
Hero by Alexander Pushkin
What is the truth?
Fame’s lustre is as fancy free
To him of all – that scornful stranger,
So, when your mind thus blithely reckons
It’s not amongst his bosom kindred;
A poet’s cant –
We think the truth is what we know
Hero by Alexander Pushkin. Translated by Thomas Beavitt ©2020
This translation was sponsored by Bella Evloeva
A ten minute snapshot of global history, politics and philosophy, it’s an ambitious and sprawling piece confidently presented by Beavitt and his collaborators.
I imagine Tommy with a wry smile on his face as he performs his impressive, wordy tour of the historic hot-spots with what sounds distinctly like his tongue in his cheek.
This spoken word odyssey is brightly backed by inventive, engaging beats from regular collaborator Nikita Nikitin and the whole piece hangs together as a coherent whole.
While it might take a while for it to be regarded as a feminist meisterwerk, it’s surely a provocative call to re-assess the merits of patriarchy.
The first single from the forthcoming concept album ‘Heraclitus Flow’, Vitruvian Woman presents an ironic and irreverent romp through three millennia of western cultural and philosophical history. Starting with the Hebrew myth of creation and original sin, it cheekily guides the listener’s imagination through Greek Homeric prehistory and the Athenian golden age, pausing to note the importance of the presocratic philosophers Heraclitus (“no man steps in the same river twice”) and Protagoras (“man is the measure of all things”), through the Roman empire and Christian nativity, via the Renaissance and so-called “Enlightenment” to the modern era. Taking into account such culturally-significant figures as Napoleon, Einstein and Julian Assange, it nevertheless places each in a context fundamentally conditioned by feminine subjectivity. In the last two verses, the author appears (“it’s getting rather hard to be a global village bard”) to give his own personal account of the postmodern condition.
In the beginning, the world started spinning – a disk that accreted from void. Creator’s intentions produced more dimensions, each lest the last be destroyed. And out of affinity strode masculinity, clutching his logos referral, But deep in his core lurked a maiden, a whore, a temptress, a mother, a girl. Then Adam knew Eve… well, he thought that he did… and that was original sin. But when Cain and Abel were sat at the table, his judgements seemed petty and thin. Playing the martyr’s a total non-starter when round such routines she runs rings! What is this insanity? Everything’s vanity! Woman is the measure of all things! The gods liked to toy with Helen of Troy, whose visage launched thirty contingents. The judgement of Paris was heard on Solaris, albeit with many infringements. And Hera sat on Ida with Athena there beside her; when Aphrodite was vindicated she rose. But the Oath of Tyndareus exonerated Menelaus, thus launching the epoch of heroes. Well, then Hector fought Achilles and Odysseus in series, but in the end they dragged his corpse around the walls; With old Agamemnon leading them again on and on till at last his fate befalls Each, who merits his portion of outrageous fortune, indignities, arrows and slings: It’s all part of the plan, but he’s only a man – and woman is the measure of all things! The bee's knees, Alcibiades, in Plato’s book Protagoras Was shown to please old Socrates, whose elenctic can still stagger us. But all those Archimedes greedies looking to lever the Earth Still need a fulcrum to rest it upon – when all they have is its dearth. Nobody can know the Heraclitus flow, who never steps into it twice: Everything slides and nothing abides – and knowledge is never precise. Man only knows the ebbs and the flows to which his identity clings: For he’s not the same man and it’s not the same river – and woman is the measure of all things! Then Aristotle went full-throttle into full-blown academia. At a nearby clinic, Diogenes the Cynic diagnosed him with schizophrenia. But Alexander wouldn’t pander to a fear of his own dark shadow; After breaking his steed, he stood in great need of self-knowledge – a failure, a saddo? Then, proceeding as taught, he did as he ought, according to Delphian principle: Dragged the old sybil out by the nipple till she screamed “My son, you’re invincible! With your banner unfurled, you may conquer the world – it ain’t over till Pythia sings That life is the school, love is the teacher – and woman is the measure of all things!” That diamond geezer, Julius Caesar, had a scene with Cleopatra. In the palace, he unsheathed his phallus, while the eunuch Ganymedes tried to capture His fleet, but was forced to retreat, while Alexandria, still besieged, burned. After the Battle of the Nile, he tarried a while, then returned To Rome, the place he called home, to await his doom in the Senate At the Ides of March. Thus, we recall the indispensable tenet: When back to Egypt his mother Caesarion brings, It all becomes clear, I fear, that woman is the measure of all things. Jesus Christ had a tryst with Mary Magdalene. Those who knew this wandering Jew could never quite explain Just how he was able to turn the table on all hypocritical sinners, But then, at a loss, he was nailed to a cross: this game of life sure has no winners. As thunderclouds loomed, he adopted a spread-eagle pose And, pondering death, exhaled his last breath and arose… Who’ll square the circle in this murk’ll be the king of kings – But in the land of the blind, the deaf don’t mind if woman is the measure of all things. It was easy for Leonardo to bring his masterpiece to fruition; Harder for Galileo to go square up against the Roman Inquisition. Truth falls like two cannonballs straight from the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa And Michelangelo’s David was wholly created in the shadow of the Mona Lisa. Logical proof is offensive to truth – who can say how the heliocentre moves? And the anthropic principle is clearly evincible for he whom the calculus proves That the puppeteer need never fear when jerking on his strings – Vitruvian man does what he can… but woman is the measure of all things! Immanuel Kant had a rant, producing a moral monstrosity. With his golden rule, he started to drool, forgetting about reciprocity. In a season of reason, he promised perpetual peace, Where pleasure in measure to ethics can only increase. He continued like that, from his conjuror’s hat, a sequence of white rabbits To produce, and from them to deduce, based on his own clocklike habits, A constructed reality, lame like an amputee, where eternal springs Of hope elope with cash for rope, but woman’s not the measure of all things! Napoleon Bonaparte practised the art of loving his wife, Josephine. His “ne te laves pas, en trois jours je reviens” ‘s still thought to be somewhat obscene. He wrote: “I have been endowed with a nature that is proud, but I still place you above me; In your alluring case, out of gossamer and lace – have you really ceased to love me...?” Then, in despair, in search of an heir, he wed Marie Louise for her womb, Who cried: “He’s a bit of a tyrant, but not when alone in his room. He’s only a temporary emperor, but [sigh] love gives him wings... Let him conquer the globe, but take off his robe… and woman is the measure of such things!” Karl Marx made some remarks about dialectical materialism. For Lenin, well, that was capital, but the ultimate stage is imperialism. And, despite such brains, some doubt remains concerning what to do about that: Что делать? Как быть? Куда бежать? Кто виноват? And while the Mao effect demands respect for a single blooming flower, Only the totally corrupt could ever dare to interrupt the prerogative of absolute power, Cutting closer to the bone to get blood out of a stone – the last drop that he wrings… But it’s all in vain and demonstrably insane – because woman is the measure of all things! Albert Einstein began to shine, making e equal to m c squared. Putting theory into practice, his conjugals seem tactless, but I doubt he really cared That their mothers were sisters and grandfathers brothers – relativity should be kept in the family! Elsa, like Monroe, was a sapiosexual ho. Giving him brain, albeit somewhat clammily, Was objectively sexier than a troupe of virgin nuns with anorexia, but I don’t mean to make light Of his depravity; to equate specific gravity with absolute momentum is quite right. And now Higgs has chosen the boson, along with quarks and superstrings… But why is there something rather than nothing? Because woman is the measure of all things! It’s getting rather hard to be a global village bard amidst all of these overlapping framings, Trying from the start to perform a minor part within linguistic Wittgensteinian gamings. And the nebulous assumption that per capita consumption has any kind of bearing on autonomy Has impuberal misconduct as the gross domestic product of an ailing low attention span economy. And I don’t like to mention the blank incomprehension that greets attempts to re-enchant the world – Just put it into storage while you try to pay the mortgage and never pause to think how we’ve been hurled Into these bum trades, while unicorns and mermaids cleave to deep affairs and shallow flings. It’s all been said before, just another kind of war… and woman’s still the measure of all things. Now Assange rots in Belmarsh prison pending extradition with nobody to come and go his bail; And many a sordid sex scene’s relived by Jeffrey Epstein, who may or may not have killed himself in jail; And whether Greta Thunberg’s financed by Michael Bloomberg or Soros himself appears beside the point, While the orgulous accusers of Satanic sex abusers for prurient viewers rarely disappoint. And the wombs of Muslim wives are being weaponised in an ongoing war against absurdity, Bequeathing to posterity an heirloom of austerity downloaded from the web of postmodernity. Now the dog and bone are long since overgrown, just like the one for whom the iPhone rings – It rings for me to the approximate degree that woman is the measure of all things!
©Lyrics written and performed by Thomas Riffmatch to a backing track composed by Nikita Nikitin with backing vocals by Tri Muzy and guest spots feat. Primavera and Katya Ashravzyanova, recorded and produced in Ekaterinburg by Andrey Bokovikov.