Blogger's movie has a charm, yes it does. In that smallness.
Tree Bird Moon is also secretly -only not so now- uploaded
to Picasa. If you click on the image below you will go to a
decent size and resolution of the 23 second movie:

From Poem Paintings

Below, one of the slides I didn't use in the slideshow movie,
which was very short, and this slide whipped by too quickly
(click for a larger size, the scribbler site has potential,
I tell you it does):

White fire spills from
the cauldron of the night,
where spirits gather
before they arrive
and after they return.

direct link: Asura (Red Puma), '360.'

An album that shines, relaxing, full, sweeping, ghostly, beautiful... a symphonic New Age, without the superficiality of the latter, a whole forest of musical sounds, instruments, technical techniques, all founded on real voice, real instruments, O what a find! I downloaded three minutes into the first track. Highly recommended.

I like the abstraction of this still from 'dance/ ...indigo folio leaves,' and am currently using it as my YouTube Channel background while this video is featured.

I've been using a still from whatever video is featured as the background for my video channel at YouTube recently and quite like the echoing, painterly look that is achieved.

Each videopoem seems to have a strong and unique palette, and the colour schemes from one video to the next don't match. So I've enjoyed uploading an image from the current video as a background so that the webpage is a coherent visual presentation. Design? laughs -yes, all the way.

-
Update: I fiddled with it so much that YouTube is claiming to save my changes, and then reverting to a standard channel design when I click back. Some play is good, but not too much.

Bottle from Kirsten Lepore on Vimeo.

Incredibly well done animation. Blows you away with a huge vision, of longing, love, communication, art. That huge ocean between us all where we are all islands unto ourselves. Building figures out of sand, and snow, and the messages in the bottle, imaginative, sweet, clear, disarmingly innocent, and we fully understand the story without dialogue, voiceover or any other words. The cuts are perfect - I can't imagine the work that went into this. The story unfolds brilliantly. And, wow, gosh, it's so multiracial! A video for our times. Bottle
by Kirsten Lepore

direct link: joseph r tomlinson's nightmare.wmv

A favourite artist, Beardsley, and these drawings/paintings are like entering Beardsley's Salome and going right through those decadent art nouveau lines, into the heart of the Baptist's head on the platter. All the psychopathic, zombie, vampire lore of our era is here. Echos of the rich stories of comic book art (though 'fin de siecle' is stronger), of film noir, of Goth horror, are here. The blood and the violence and the sexuality. His Medusa is wickedly dangerous. Under the hand of tomlinson's draftsmanship, vivid, powerful work.

direct link: dance/ ...indigo folio leaves (with poem)

A dance that is creative movement, a moving meditation. Brenda Clews: prose poetry, dance, video. Music: José Travieso's track, 'Monster,' on his album, "No More Faith."

Music

...enters your backbone, joints, plucks the
cartilage holding you together. Music is the
moon of the red tides of your bloodstream.
Drift to and fro, a willow tree, or sway, bend,
a flamenco, stretch, purple morning glories
on the vine, jump. Sway your hips, delta of
fiery flow. Express yourself, woman. No-one
is watching. Say it all. The lyric travels tenderly
through your wrist, a memory of the wind on the
hill. You are an instrument of the musician who
is absent, gone. Whose music plays on; who
does not know you exist. Orphean muse. Twirl
on the floor, the beat in your ankles, room
spinning, see the canvas walls, luminous see
the sun, moon, stars that are always there.
Spin on the clock turning. Give everything.

Wanton woman. Harlot of the night. Mother of
angels. Insufferable radiance. Black hole of
emptiness. Sweet moan nectar.

Mystery dangles like your silver bracelets,
the ghosts are present. Approach yourself by
disappearing. Undulate your liquid bones.
Beautiful sensuality. Seek invisible illumination
in your writhing steps. Leave time, transform in
your multiplicity, a seer searching the spheres.
Manifest your dreams. Shake them out of the air
to materialize before you like light forms. Shimmy,
wet sweat, a flag in a wind storm. Thunder the
floor. Witch, werewolf, Goth beauty, fragile
starchild, cyberpunk, pull the sky down. Sway
those hips, woman. Sway them until you ignite.
Dance with your ineffable muse. Just, dance.

I pull purple veils over my vision, indigo
blue silk lights and shadows.

Listen: dance on the stage of your
imagination.


© by Brenda Clews, 2011



Contemplating the Muse

I am testing an encryption code (created by Vincent Cheung) for hiding specific aspects of a post from 'public' view. Click on the link to the draft of the poem below. You will need the key to see it:

encryption test

(to copy and paste the key into the box that appears when you click on the link just below works)






ps. If you would like to be able to encrypt certain portions of posts, make sure to add the java code to your Blog Design's Template html first. Then the encryption code that you generate should work when you paste it into the 'html' section of a post. *If it's a poem, remember to add < / br > [no spaces] at the end of every line you wish a hard return on before you paste it in for coding.

Green Fire: a photo poem.... a digitally manipulated image taken with my iPhone.

My son, at 4 years, describing a scribble drawing, said, 'It's green fire: there's some in your life; there's some in mine.' He knew. (He's 24 now, but some things you never forget.)

by Olli Kekäläinen, 'Torn in Black.'


White parchment or fabric curves in the night wind.

Is the black torn?

Silence, torn by sound; emptiness, by being.

direct link: dance/ ...indigo folio leaves

Folio: a sheet of paper folded once to make two leaves of a book or manuscript.

Late afternoon, when the spring sun was pouring in, I videotaped some dancing to José Travieso's track, 'Monster,' on his album, "No More Faith":  Besides being technically beautiful, quite goth baroque in its composition, there is an undercurrent of feeling in this music. Music like this can awaken the inner self in its dance, or this is how it calls to me.

And I layered two different dances to the same music: first I separated the figures, but it didn't look quite right, so I superimposed them, allowing the dance of the two to occur in the same space, an intertexuality of subjectivities, like folio leaves.

I see the woman of the dance transformed into figures that are, but are not me.



I wrote to the Spanish musician, José, on his track, 'Monster': 'This piece is so beautiful, like the passion of angels, pain and transcendance in the music that you play, what is the monster? Is beauty the monster?

How can beauty be a monster?'

He teaches all day, and at night, the music. Stressful, hard. He rarely has time to read, walk, visit friends, relax. "Everyday I work on it with passion... or maybe just obsession. So, everyday, when I'm recording an album, I feel more and more tired, it consumes me... Music is my own monster, my search for the perfection and the beautiful thing is my own monster. This is my explanation."

'I understand. A consuming passion. A beauty that devours its creator in consummation.

I, too, prefer art that is vulnerable, without pretence.'



[still working on this prose poem]

Music

...enters your backbone, joints, plucks the
cartilage holding you together. Music is the
moon of the red tides of your bloodstream.
Drift to and fro, a willow tree, or sway, bend,
a flamenco, stretch, purple morning glories
on the vine, jump. Centre in your hips, your
delta of fiery flow. Feel your pain, power, joy.
Express yourself, woman. No-one is watching.
Say it all. The lyric travels tenderly through your
wrist, a memory of the wind on the hill. Be the
hands that play you. You are an instrument of the
instruments of the musician who is blind, absent,
gone. Whose music plays on; who does not know
you exist. Orphean muse. Twirl on the floor, the
beat in your ankles, room spinning, see through
the canvas walls, stars, sun, moon luminous
on the clock turning. Give everything.

Wanton woman. Harlot of the night. Mother of
angels. Insufferable radiance. Black hole of
emptiness. Sweet moan nectar.

Be loose as a cigarette on the lip in Rio de Janeiro.
The ruffle on a lacy skirt in Dusseldorf. Like the
ruins of the Colosseum in Rome. Glide as
diamonds on the Aegean Sea. Icy tundra of the
Arctic. Emerge and submerge a dorsal fin in the
Caribbean. Become a stone age myth, a magic
amulet hewn from rock. Goddess of the Oroborus
serpent, undulate your liquid bones. Mystery dangles
like your silver bracelets, the ghosts are present.
Approach yourself by disappearing. Rhumba to
this moment; tango to the other side. Primavera of
being. Beautiful in your sensuality. Seek invisible
illumination in your writhing steps. Flee time,
transform in your multiplicity, a seer searching
the spheres. Manifest your wishes - your dreams.
Shake them out of the air to materialize like light forms.
Shimmy, wet sweat, a flag in a wind storm. Thunder
the floor. Cross mid-section through a Pythagorean
theorem and come out the other end of Leibniz's prisms.
Play on Goethe's colour wheel. Trip like a stream
dashing over rocks as smoothly as a Shakespearean
sonnet's sexual ambiguity. Witch, werewolf, Goth
beauty, fragile starchild, cyberpunk, pull the sky
down. Sway those hips, woman. Sway them until you
ignite. Be you while you dance; don't let them
touch you. Dance with your ineffable
muse. Just, dance.

I pull purple veils over my eyes, in love with
indigo blue silk lights and shadows.

I dance the white and black keys of a harpsichord
while it dances me.

Listen: dance on the stage of your
imagination.


© by Brenda Clews, 2011 (a sort of inspirational poem for women, but there's a lot going on in it, too)

            


___
If you're fascinated by the way videos evolve through versions, there are two earlier versions at a Picasa album: The Canvas Backdrop

I've entered this poem in the Big Tent Poetry's Ring of weekly poems. 'dance, ...indigo folio leaves' is a performance piece that includes video and poetry. One, a poetry of motion; the other a written poem. They are on the subject of dancing, and the poem is still being drafted.