A POEM
BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
PETER GREEN
1
In Bethnal Green, where London's heartbeats thrummed,
A Jewish boy named Peter Greenbaum strummed.
With soul and strings, he found his early tone,
Yet faced the world in struggle, quite alone.
To flee from scorn, his name he cast aside,
And Peter Green arose with quiet pride.
The blues had called—his heart began to burn,
With B. B. King and Waters as his turn.
He played with Mayall, Clapton’s vacant seat,
His fingers forged a fire both raw and sweet.
Though skeptics frowned, his tone soon carved a name,
“The Supernatural” lit his path to fame.
With Fleetwood, Mick, and John, he raised a band,
And “Albatross” swept o’er both sea and land.
“Oh Well,” “Black Magic Woman,”—songs of might,
That soared like ravens through the starry night.
But fame, alas, became a poisoned wine,
And Peter sought a purer, truer sign.
In robes he walked, a cross upon his chest,
And deemed that greed would never bring him rest.
He gave his gold to feed the poor and weak,
While visions deep and dreadful made him speak.
In Munich, came a fateful, mind-torn slip,
“I went,” he said, “and never left that trip.”
The Green Manalishi rang his last refrain,
As Peter walked from Mac in silent pain.
He wandered through the dark, withdrew from sound,
While madness made his world go round and round.
Yet from the void, his song would rise once more,
“In the Skies” broke open heaven’s door.
Though shadows trailed him, deep and unrelenting,
His soul kept singing, never quite repenting.
His “Greeny” tone inspired many a hand,
Santana's magic, Moore's guitar so grand.
Though demons clawed and starlight waned and wept,
His legacy in living fingers slept.
In twenty-twenty came his final call,
At seventy-three, he rose above it all.
Though life had scarred him, music made him shine—
A spectral prophet of the blues' deep line.
2
In London’s East, where smoke and struggle blend,
A Jewish child began his journey’s bend.
Young Peter Greenbaum, son of toil and strife,
Would walk the fretboard path that shaped his life.
From Bethnal Green, with music in his bones,
He found in blues a voice for silent tones.
While others mocked his faith, his roots, his name,
He forged “Peter Green” from fear and flame.
The tones of B. B. King would flood his ears,
And Muddy’s moan would echo through his years.
Otis and Freddie, voices torn with pain,
Played tunes that danced like thunder through his brain.
At fifteen years, he shaped his soul anew,
And chased the sound his spirit always knew.
His bass first hummed with Peter Bardens' crew,
Where Fleetwood’s drums would soon be beating too.
Then fate aligned with Clapton’s brief farewell,
And Green stepped in, the crowd unsure as well.
Yet Mayall saw a fire in Peter’s play—
A tone so rich, it stole the breath away.
Though fans had doubted he could match the past,
He proved them wrong with fingers fierce and fast.
With A Hard Road, his name began to grow,
While The Supernatural cast its glow.
And soon he dreamed a vision bold and wide:
A band of blues to stem the rolling tide.
With Fleetwood’s beat and McVie’s steady grace,
Fleetwood Mac stood and took its sacred place.
With Jeremy Spencer's slide and wailing note,
They launched a sound that tore through every throat.
Albatross glided soft, serene, and pure—
A tune that time itself could not obscure.
Oh Well would snarl with raw, electric bite,
While Man of the World bled through lonely night.
His Black Magic Woman cast a sultry spell,
Which Carlos heard and shaped into a yell.
But fame, that fickle friend, soon turned to foe—
The stage grew dark, the lights began to glow
With hues of madness, twisted, sharp and deep,
And Peter found no refuge, not in sleep.
The LSD, the mescaline, the dread,
Brought haunted voices whispering in his head.
He dressed in robes, a crucifix in hand,
And preached of charity across the land.
He begged the band to give their gold away,
“Let music speak—let wealth and power decay!”
They could not follow where his soul had turned;
Within his heart, a fevered gospel burned.
In Munich’s halls, a night of shadows fell—
The trip that some still call his private hell.
The commune’s haze, the castle’s ghostly light,
Consumed his mind and dimmed his inner sight.
He said, “I took a trip, and never came—
The man who left has never been the same.”
The Green Manalishi, final haunted hymn,
Was sung before the dusk eclipsed the dim.
He left the band, its rise no longer his,
He sought the soul, not charts or fame or fizz.
He played alone, in jamming dream and haze,
Then vanished from the public eye for days.
A gardener’s life, in silence he would tend,
While fame dissolved like footprints in the sand.
His past came back with shadows sharp and near,
And madness walked beside him year to year.
A gun was drawn, a threat, a tangled call—
The law stepped in before his soul could fall.
A clinic held him till the storm had passed,
And friends then prayed his peace might come at last.
In the Skies rose like a hopeful sun,
A second act not many thought would come.
And though he played with less of youthful fire,
His notes still stirred the heart with old desire.
The Splinter Group became his traveling shrine,
He walked again the fretboard’s secret line.
And though the fire was mellowed by the years,
Each tone he played still shimmered into tears.
He sang of demons, battles fought within—
Of garments shed, of shedding former sin.
Repossess My Body, mournful, deep, and true,
Revealed a soul still searching what to do.
Though Sweden called, and silence wrapped him round,
His name lived on in tone, in note, in sound.
For “Greeny”—that immortal, singing Les—
Still whispers secrets bluesmen all confess.
The heavy lords of metal raised his flame,
As Judas Priest once sang his haunted name.
And Gary Moore, with heart and fingers lean,
Returned the love in Blues for Peter Green.
Santana’s notes, like embers wild and black,
Would echo Peter’s ghost and call him back.
His songs were covered, treasured, re-expressed—
By Page, by Crowes, by all whom blues had blessed.
Though time had aged the hands that once had soared,
His soul, through strings and silence, still outpoured.
In twenty-twenty came the final chord,
And Peter passed beyond the fret and word.
Yet still he plays, where no distortion groans—
A quiet realm of golden, burning tones.
A gentle god among the blues’ domain,
Forever bending sorrow into flame.
ERIC CLAPTON
In Surrey’s heart, where old green gardens lie,
A child was born beneath the English sky.
Eric was named, though Fryer was his sire,
A soldier gone, returned to duty’s fire.
His mother, Pat, was young, just sweet sixteen,
Alone, afraid, unheard and rarely seen.
So Rose and Jack, her parents, took the helm,
And raised the boy within their modest realm.
He called them “mum” and “dad” through early days,
Unknowing yet of tangled bloodlines’ maze.
His name from Clapton’s line, a silent thread,
Whose bearer lay long buried with the dead.
Though music filled the house with tender grace,
A quiet sadness lingered in the space.
His gran played tunes, his uncle liked the sound,
And jazz and swing would in the room resound.
But shadows stirred within the boy’s own mind,
A growing sense of truths he could not find.
At nine, the truth emerged from lips once sealed—
His mother stood revealed, his soul unhealed.
He bore the wound in silence, raw and deep,
And let his grades and laughter fall asleep.
His schooling flailed, he failed the crucial test,
And wandered on, a youth not like the rest.
Yet art he loved, and drawing gave him peace,
A way to let the inner chaos cease.
Then rock and roll arrived with blazing might,
And sparked his heart anew with sound and light.
He asked for strings, a guitar harsh to hold,
Its steel too stiff, its body far too cold.
He set it down—then later took it back,
When blues called out upon its beaten track.
At sixteen, art school cast the boy away,
For blues had seized his nights and ruled his day.
He practiced long, with fingers worn and sore,
And yearned to learn the bluesmen's ancient lore.
From B.B. King to Muddy Waters' cry,
Their laments taught his soul to reach the sky.
With help, he bought a Kay of modest form,
Electric dreams began to slowly warm.
Through Richmond streets and Kingston’s lively air,
He played for coins, for music, and for care.
The Roosters came, his first real band of pride,
Then Casey Jones with pop that did not bide.
A builder’s toil, he shared his granddad’s trade,
And yet, his hand reached for the chord he played.
Then came The Yardbirds’ fateful, thrilling call,
They crowned him “Slowhand”, echoing through all.
But when they chased the charts, he bowed away,
For Clapton sought the blues, not pop’s display.
John Mayall called—“Come join the Breakers’ sound!”
And there his name in sacred tones was crowned.
A wall declared it bold with spray and nod:
The phrase rang out—“Clapton is our God.”
Though storms would come and tempests test his soul,
His path was clear: the blues would make him whole.
He left the Bluesbreakers, his path anew,
In sixty-six, Cream rose with fiery hue.
With Bruce and Baker, forged a power trio,
Their sound would conquer lands from Rome to Rio.
Three albums strong: Fresh Cream, Disraeli Gears,
Wheels of Fire burned through doubts and fears.
In Albert's Hall their swan song came to play,
Then pride and discord tore the band away.
From ashes rose Blind Faith, a fleeting flame,
A supergroup of glory and of shame.
One album made, then fame became a weight,
So Eric turned and walked a humbler fate.
With Delaney’s band, he found his voice,
A sideman now, but not a lesser choice.
His solo debut brought a subtle change,
New songs, new tones, a broader vocal range.
As Rome had fallen, so did Dominos,
With Layla born of love that no one knows.
For Patti’s grace, he sang in tortured moan,
Yet heartbreak left him lost and all alone.
Three years in exile, drowned in heroin’s sea,
A Surrey fortress kept him far from free.
But Townshend's hand reached out through music's gate,
The Rainbow shows defied the hand of fate.
With Ocean Boulevard, he changed his skin,
A softer sound, where soul and pop begin.
Each year he shaped a new melodic path,
Avoiding stasis, dodging fame’s false wrath.
From Journeyman to August he would grow,
And Live Aid cast him in a brighter glow.
Then tears in heaven made the world reflect,
A softer Eric—grieving, circumspect.
He sought the cradle, blues in purest form,
Paid homage to the storm before his storm.
With B.B. King, he rode a golden wave,
Two kings united by the songs they gave.
Then Reptile danced in jazz and latin air,
While Johnson’s ghost was summoned with deep care.
The past and future fused in Back Home’s art,
A bluesman's soul with pop’s refined heart.
And Cream, like Caesar’s legions, rose once more,
To storm again the Royal Albert floor.
Their reign was brief, but glory graced their name,
And music's Rome still sings the Clapton flame.
Eric’s next project, crafted in the shade,
Was helmed by Tulsa’s master, J.J. Cale.
He long admired Cale’s laid-back refrain,
Had played “Midnight,” “Cocaine,” and “Travelin’ Light” again.
Their work turned joint, a fusion rich and deep,
Escondido came, its praises high and steep.
A Grammy win in blues did soon arise,
A crown beneath November’s glowing skies.
Then came Clapton in two-thousand-nine,
Its track “Run Back” was marked as Grammy’s sign.
New albums followed—Old Sock had its say,
I Still Do and Happy Xmas paved the way.
With Wynton Marsalis, he found new delight,
Honoring Cale with friends, his playing bright.
Two hundred times or more he lent his hand,
From Aretha's soul to Zucchero's bold band.
In ’64, he joined Otis Spann’s song,
Then wept for George with solos deep and strong.
On Hawkwind’s “Watcher” he returned once more,
Still haunting chords that echoed, aged and pure.
With Dylan, Lennon, Sting, and Stevie too,
With Elton, Pavarotti—just a few.
He took the stage with legends, stars aligned,
From Tina’s fire to Prince’s purple mind.
Three thousand shows across the globe he gave,
In fifty-eight lands, bold and ever brave.
Two billion souls have heard his strings ascend,
His Hall of Royal nights may never end.
From ’87 to ninety-six, each year
He’d hold court there; in ’91, most clear—
He played twenty-four nights, with bands anew,
One with an orchestra that grandeur drew.
And stateside too, the Garden heard his grace,
More than fifty times he rocked that hallowed place.
In two world tours, he stretched his strength so wide,
One hundred shows and more—his steady stride.
He jammed with Beck and Winwood, friends of old,
Their music live, spontaneous and bold.
At seventy, he chose to scale things down,
But never laid his guitar fully down.
He marked the age with concerts in high style,
At Albert Hall and Madison’s great aisle.
A London show was pressed to disc and screen,
Slowhand at 70, aged but keen.
In Tokyo, he played the Budokan,
With Planes, Trains, Eric chronicling the man.
Then London, LA, New York felt his fire,
And Hyde Park’s stage held 65K’s desire.
The honors came, like tides upon the sand,
A BAFTA, Grammys, laurels from the land.
The Hall of Fame he’s entered not just once—
But thrice: as band, as Cream, and solo stunt.
The Queen, in time, bestowed her noble name—
An OBE, then CBE with fame.
Though heroin once held him in its cage,
He faced down demons, turned another page.
With alcohol he fought a second war,
Till ’87 found relapse no more.
He took the steps, those twelve that guide the soul,
And made recovery his higher goal.
In '98, he raised a healing place,
Where addicts poor could meet him face to face.
On Antigua, Crossroads found its form,
A center braving every inner storm.
He funded care for those with no recourse,
Their hope restored by music’s driving force.
To aid the Centre, Eric took the stage,
A cause for healing, not for wealth or rage.
He held guitar fests, auctions bold and grand,
To raise what care and kindness might demand.
In June of ninety-nine, he sold with grace
One hundred guitars, each a treasured case.
At Christie’s house in famed New York they stood—
Among them “Brownie,” carved of holy wood.
This Layla axe, with strings of whispered fire,
Was played in pain, in longing, and desire.
The auction’s close, five million’s noble gain,
Was poured into the Centre’s healing chain.
That same month’s end, he filled the Garden’s hall,
Where music rang in freedom’s heartfelt call.
The show on VH1 was later aired,
With DVDs and sales that donors shared.
Then in oh-four, he launched anew the fight,
With Dallas set to blaze with six-string light.
Three days of soul, the greatest came to play—
The Crossroads Festival was born that day.
Another auction followed in its wake:
Six million more the blessed hands did take.
“Blackie” was sold, and Cream’s red axe as well,
Each strummed to life with tales they’d long to tell.
In twenty-eleven, once again they played,
As strings were sold and healing debts were paid.
Three fests more followed—'07 to '13—
Each note a prayer where hope and joy were seen.
From CDs, DVDs, the profits run,
To light the path of those whose fight’s begun.
His tale in prose came forth in autumn's chill,
Two thousand seven saw its truth distilled.
Twelve tongues retold it—stories, raw and deep,
Of highs and lows and songs that made men weep.
A film was made, Twelve Bars its mournful name,
It showed his rise, his grief, his fight with fame.
At Toronto’s famed fest it made its bow,
On Blu-Ray now, it draws the watchers' vow.
On New Year’s Day, in two-oh-two they wed,
Melia and Eric, where their future led.
Three daughters born: young Julie came in June,
Then Ella, Sophie followed life's sweet tune.
With Yvonne Kelly came a child before—
Young Ruth, now grown, with children she adores.
But sorrow struck in ninety-one, March's air,
When little Conor fell from windows bare.
Lori del Santo bore the child he lost,
A wound still carried, worth no earthly cost.
Once wed to Pattie, muse of love and strife,
He found no peace in that much-troubled life.
They split in ‘89, the bond undone,
No child was born before their time was run.