Explorez tous les épisodes du podcast The Crane Bag Podcast

Stories from around the world brought into the here and now by storyteller, poet and musician Jay Leeming.

An exploration of the Mahabharata by performance storyteller Jay Leeming.

www.JayLeeming.com

Thoughts on composing a story for oral performance by Jay Leeming. "Not I, not I but the wind that blows through me" --D.H. Lawrence

www.JayLeeming.com

www.JayLeeming.com

The stories never end they just curl their tails around themselves and sleep for awhile. Above them the leaves of the world tree flutter in the wind. The night wind that knows all the answers because it has no need of questions. Somewhere there's a moon, somewhere there's a farmer and his wife sleeping in a feather bed. She laughs once in her sleep and this wakes up the farmer; a moment later he falls back to sleep and dreams of walking through a field of apple trees their apples ripe and sweet.

www.JayLeeming.com

www.JayLeeming.com

This is day 73 from my "101 Days of Story," coming a bit late to the party due to a technical glitch. But ready to go!

This is day 72 from my "101 Days of Story," which is a bit late to the party due to a technical glitch.

www.JayLeeming.com

The story of Scheherazade from "Stories from 1001 Nights," told by Jay Leeming as part of the 101 stories in 101 days project all the beans but one and eternity has a hole in the side a little hatch out of which the clever person clambers with a bag containing a carrot and the stub-end of a candle who knows if he might be God in disguise?

He has been washed clean of his gift. "King Midas and the Goat-Man" brought to life by performance storyteller Jay Leeming.

www.JayLeeming.com

www.JayLeeming.com

O wild man O wild woman

www.JayLeeming.com

A story is something which is not true that happens all the time.

www.JayLeeming.com

Creosote, flouride, and a half a teaspoon of potassium nitrate.

www.JayLeeming.com

Open mouth story jump out.

www.JayLeeming.com

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though. He will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow. 

You go in you don't come out.

The lid to the forest is a green door the one you go through when you step onto the path the one you hear slam behind you when the dark enters into your bones the stars are very quiet there and hotter than anything you've felt before when you lie down little animals come to give you a new name you won't remember it later but it will change how you walk to your car in the morning with your jangly keys in your hand trying not to be late.

The furry brown leaves aren't leaves at all but something else, animals from the understory working to a set of instructions known to no human though Leonardo Da Vinci did manage to glimpse them briefly. He tried to write about what he saw, to paint it, to get it into some fixed form but it just wriggled away. And then outside the water-seller started up with his salty and disastrously memorable song. 

What happens in the silence stays in the silence. The lady with the sword sleeps under the water. A hedgehog ambles towards a stream, a cloud contemplates the songs of the lemon trees. Somewhere in the desert a lost pocketwatch begins to rust. 

Does science kill what it loves? Does the biologist ask the sparrow's permission before placing a microchip on its shoulder? What world is this we live in?