direct link: Dance of Gold Canvas

A performance piece, hints of the epic, the metamorphosis that life is. Age and grace. Frivolity and art. Pain and laughter. Humor and seriousness.

In the dance I speak a poetry whose volume I dimmed to just below audible. A poetry below the threshold.

And of this nearly silenced subliminal speaking? It's part of the motion poem. A tantra. Dance, the journey of the soul, guttural, the women crying for help during the tsunami, women in war, survival, a Blakean crawl across the canvas at one point and I allowed some words to rise, utterances, Butoh not in style but expression perhaps in parts, and of strength, empowerment, and the fecund, the buds of spring about to burst, Boticelli's Primavera, the rich earthy tapestries of the natural world, and Zen, laughter at the absurdity of life, and love, love everywhere, enjoyment in the body itself, sensuality, a wit, humour. Dancing with shadows of the self was intriguing in the editing, as was slipping between colours of a rich Buddha saffron and the smudging shadows of black and white. Editing itself a psychic process, shaping a moving poem.

How a video comes to be is almost surreal. Magic in the editing. I enter a state where time doesn't matter and think it closest to the dream, the mind's most deeply creative process, where you're exploring something, and you're not quite sure what it means, or where it's going, but are fascinated, compelled.

A dance poem, an enactment, a one-act play. Perhaps in this piece something visionary, in that there is resolution to the conflict, the paradoxes, in the process of art itself, in the dance of the self.

Self-conscious but daring to anyhow, give everything you've got.

The dance of the self within Krishna's cosmic dance, the spinning painting of us on the canvas, the dance we all share.



Performed, videoed and edited by Brenda Clews.

Background music by arnoldsrecords, 'There's a hole, there's a wall.'

-
Without memory, the fragile present disappears.

blog: Rubies in Crystal
art and writings: brendaclews.com
Starfire, an album of poetry performance pieces
(listen, download for free)

A site on the forefront of multi-media poetry today, Moving Poems, is having a videopoem contest. Dave writes, "I thought it would be fun to have a contest where everyone would use the same poem in its entirety, either in the soundtrack or as text (or both)." The poem, "Fable," by Howie Good is short but full with metaphoric possibility. The deadline is April 15th; there is no limit to the number of times you can submit entries. Do submit. Details: Moving Poem's First Videopoem Contest.

I sewed some canvas strips together that had been window coverings for some years before I bought curtains. They enable the creation of a performance space in my tiny, cramped, messy apartment. The canvas covers three bookshelves and the doorway to the kitchen. After stapling the canvas to the tops of the bookshelves and wall, I set my video camera on a tripod and jumped right into the nook and danced at midnight! I was up till 5am editing the footage! Besides a few photos of the canvas, and stills from the video, I've uploaded 'Dance in Black and Gold' to Picasa; if you go and watch a slideshow you can see it there.

From The Canvas Backdrop

Sewing strips of canvas (that were window coverings before I got curtains) for a backdrop for video performance pieces. Yes, those are two-toned nails, Thalo blue and Cherry cream. :smiles:

And, ek, what a job, sewing all that canvas on my little machine! Bent two needles, too, and finished the job by praying and bending the last needle back into shape. I've stapled a whole corner of my little apartment. Then my son and his girlfriend came to watch a movie! Time to take a break. Maybe try a little something later, just to see...

From The Canvas Backdrop

The nook in my tiny apartment for performance pieces, created with all the canvas strips I sewed (that were window coverings the first few years here, before I got curtains). The canvas covers a wall of bookshelves and the doorway to the kitchen! The pieces on the floor were too slippery, so I'll have to sew them together and tape them down next time. I need a bit more canvas for the performance piece I am planning, but I did do a little dance/poetry piece in this space that evening: Dance of Gold Canvas - see some stills in the following photos.

From The Canvas Backdrop

from, 'Dance in Black and Gold,' a dance poem, a performance piece...

in my newly sewn canvas nook!

From The Canvas Backdrop

From The Canvas Backdrop

From The Canvas Backdrop

The video is at YouTube: Dance in Black and Gold

Although I've dealt with long blocks in my life, for the last decade, writing has been easy. When an image arose that caught my imaginary, I'd begin writing, and the piece flowed almost of its own accord. Sure, there was lots of editing, tweaking, re-arranging, re-orienting, and a piece might go through many minor revisions, but the original image came easily and as if my magic. The last couple of months have not been like that. Key images have not been emerging of their own volition. In the creative cycle I am currently in, I have to work a lot harder to pull the material out of my visions, unconscious, knowledge, wherever it comes from.

Because so many poets wrote about the recent perigee moon, I also wanted to contribute a piece. For days, nothing. Staring at day and night sky. Nothing. Went for walks. Nothing. Looked at images of the fabulous moon. Nothing. So on the night of the greatest fullness, I went out with my dog late, my iPhone with me. As we rounded a street corner, there the moon was. A bright spotlight in the sky. I turned on the Voice Memo, and talked for two blocks. Anything and everything that came into my mind. From that chatter, I created this poem. It went through dozens of revisions. I am happy with the poem.

For your interest, loathe as I am to 'show all' -such nakedness!- I also paste in the transcript I typed from the monologue in the Voice Memo at the end of the post.

While I don't recommend recording a monologue as a poetic technique because it is laborious, it will generally give you enough images to write a poem. It's an aural brainstorm. I like to walk the dark streets and whisper into my phone recorder. People passing think I'm on the phone. Yet, and this has happened to me, what if the Voice Memo isn't on and doesn't record your words? Remember to remember enough of the trail to re-evoke it or grab the tail ends of images. When using this technique, think of Yeats, who wrote his poems from prose he had written first.

Here is the finished poem. I spent some hours memorizing it trying to use a 'palace of memory' technique. The recording is different to my other ones in that as I am reciting from memory (mostly) the reading is less dramatic, slower. Since your eye reads way faster than the recording, I recommend closing your eyes to listen.




Music background, a re-arrangement of Jose Travieso's, "Shinigami's Dream, No. 7."

Wear White Paint for the Moon We draw back, it is not easy but there is no other way. White fire spills from the cauldron of the night. A pregnant belly of illumination where spirits gather before they arrive and after they return. Moths against the lantern, our scorching hearts. Clouds skein like silver wool. Earth and stars spin falling into the vortex of whitening and darkening. The moon is a rock that flew from our oceans and seeks to return to her womb within us. Stark, startling, as I round the corner of a busy street. A spotlight in the charred sky. In the moisture of my eyes, squinting, a gleaming halo moon. A barren rock of mountains and dried seabeds up there, dragging the oceans with her, her dress of tides. A queen of debauchery, a mythos of dark permissions. Or the purity of a white goddess worshipped by the skyclad among the trees dancing in naked circles drawing her power. She is a pearl like a grain of sand in the oyster of the night that opens, a mystical lamp for the mutterings of poets and visionaries and the crazed in a world of forgotten harrowings. In the perigee moon what is untamed reigns. Wear white paint, my love, so we may dance savage across the stage lit by the moon in the night sky. Wear white paint, my love, so we may dance before the dawn draws us away. A crystal ball for seers, the beginning of time crumbles into the end. And as we sleep, faint and far apart, we guard the moon in our dreams.

2:15pm.

OMG, this is so funny! YouTube is offering some 'video-making' sites. This one is a text-to-video animation by xtranormal. It took 3 tries, but eventually a video appeared. It was free. Do try it!


direct link: Free Animation of Wear White Paint for the Moon






What I spoke into the Voice Memo as a way to deal with my current writer's block, which is impossible to read, impossible! The blocked poet strips herself, reveals a technique only to be used in desperation:


As I turn the corner from the busy street into the tree-lined street with bare branches I am stricken by the spotlight in the sky. The white, round, full moon. Athena is close tonight. She sends her arrows of protection; her arrows of strength; her arrows of forbearance; and her arrows of delight in self-empowerment. I walk down this street and feel the full white perigee moon, the largest in decades is watching even me, even my insignificance, smaller than a cell as I crawl the face of the earth. Gazing across planets, from my darkness into the light. She is blazing white fire. I bow down before her, on Lent, on Purim. The generosity of the light that guides us in the darkness, whiteness of the shadowed world. Pregnant belly of the world. Where souls gather, before they arrive and after they leave, to watch the pageants of life on earth. Who pulls the tides of the earth's oceans, and who caused the nutrients of life to flow together and combust. The moon. The moon. The moon. Celestial sister so close, exerting a large gravitational pull on the earth at this moment, so close I could touch her and I am fully magnetized with moon power, I am drawing the moon down, down. I am being drawn up through the moonbeams, up, up. The earth falls into the sky, the earth falls into the moon. The earth falls into the moon's eye in the sky. The moon is clear-seeing. The moon may be gazed upon. The moon is mystery. The moon is water. The moon is water. The moon pulls the waters with her as she travels through the sky. Her white wedding gowns flowing. Dazzling moon beams She is a queen of the night. And she guides me along the white sidewalk, shadowed, mysterious. Magic is afoot. Magic is everywhere. The moon is the mystical lamp of the mystics. The moon is the feminine; the moon is the masculine. The moon is a rock in the sky that was cast off from our ocean and who is forever trying to return to her womb within us. The moon the moon is a majestic tutelary spirit circling the earth protecting the earth watching over us. The moon reflects of the sun whitely. The moon in its whiteness reflects the light of the sun. The moon is a combustion of white fire. The moon sparkles in the whiteness of the round whiteness of the dark sky. The clouds flow like silver ghosts about her; the smoke about her is silver, is the grey clouds, the grey white clouds. She is stark and startling in the sky. She is a spotlight in the sky. She is bright. The moisture of my eyes causes her to gleam, her white halo. Moonbeams. She is heavenly. She is earthly. She is barren. She is full. She belongs to the realm of ghosts. She is of the beginning of time; she will crumble like a pearl at the end of time. She is a pearl of great price; she is the alchemist's pearl. She is the pearl that is like a grain of sand in the oyster of the night that causes poets and visionaries and madmen to induces reverie and madness when the moon is full the wildness begins. She is queen of the debauchery of the night. When the moon is full the sky clad people emerge from behind the trees in the forests and they dance and they have rituals and they bathe in moonlight on their bare skin. The moon is a psychic force. The moon is a crystal ball. The moon portends the future. The moon is past, present and future. The moon is the Buddha, the cool light of the intellect. The moon follows us, everywhere we walk the moon, the moon is following, a spotlight. Our way is lit. The moon is the white goddess, the triple goddess, White Tara, Kuan Yin. The whiteness of the spirit in its purity. The moon is a paradox. The moon has caught our imaginations and gathered them and spread them to the stars. The moon is our guardian. We guard the moon in our dreams.

_


__
I'm including this as a piece in this week's Big Tent Poetry prompt: "to take a piece of your writing, or some other bit of written text, and try out one of the toys or tricks (on our new Poetry Toys page) to generate (reformulate) new work." The prompt sat in the back of my mind fertilizing ideas for how to write a poem on a topic this week (the perigee moon), and while I didn't attempt to try any of the 'toys,' I definitely used a technique to generate imagery for a poem. See here for other responses.

We draw back,
it is not easy but there is no other way.

White fire spills from the cauldron of the night.

A pregnant belly of illumination where spirits gather before they arrive and after they return.

Moths against the lantern, our scorching hearts. Clouds skein like silver wool. Earth and stars spin falling into the vortex of whitening and darkening.

The moon is a rock that flew from our oceans and seeks to return to her womb within us.

Stark, startling, as I round the corner of a busy street. A spotlight in the charred sky. In the moisture of my eyes, squinting, a gleaming halo moon.

A barren rock of mountains and dried seabeds up there, dragging the oceans with her, her dress of tides. A queen of debauchery, a mythos of dark permissions. Or the purity of a white goddess worshipped by the skyclad among the trees dancing in naked circles drawing her power.

She is a pearl like a grain of sand in the oyster of the night that opens, a mystical lamp for the mutterings of poets and visionaries and the crazed in a world of forgotten harrowings. In the perigee moon what is untamed reigns.

Wear white paint, my love, so we may dance savage across the stage lit by the moon in the night sky.

Wear white paint, my love, so we may dance before the dawn draws us away.

A crystal ball for seers, the beginning of time crumbles into the end.

And as we sleep, faint and far apart,
we guard the moon in our dreams.




Music background, a slight re-arrangement of Jose Travieso's, "Shinigami's Dream, No. 7."



_
If you'd like to read about the process of this poem, I wrote a long post in the next entry. Go here.

If you'd like to download this recording, try here, though I think the link expires after 90 days: WearWhitePaintForTheMoon-320.mp3 (6.64 MB)[/url]

One Hundred Love Sonnets IX was written in 1958 by Pablo Neruda.

Besides loving Neruda's famous sonnet, I went into hyper-heaven with the footage. I've never seen anything that's 'exactly' like my childhood in Kafue National Park in Zambia until this video. This footage was daily life, exactly like that. I'm spinning with joy, this is it. Takes me back, oh so far back, to my beloved jungle, and beloved wild animals, giraffes, zebras, buck, hyenas, and the lions, my friends the lions...

____

This is like a dream I once had. Maybe it is the dream that waited for you to photograph it.

__
photo, Shadows in the Backyard, by Olli Kekäläinen.

a massive earth angel, aloft,
sky swooping to earth


___
photo, Learning to Fly, by Olli Kekäläinen, one of my favourite photographers on Flickr

turned a corner to a spotlight pressed the voice memo and spoke of the startling light white in the close sky for blocks moon talking

nest of hair, of broken golden eggs from Brenda Clews on Vimeo.

[Video shot entirely with my iPhone and edited on a subway with the iMovie app. With no training in film or photography, I guess and fret my way through, but surely Apple was aiming at folks like me with these gadgets and programs.]

What made me cut my hair in 1981?

It was time for a transformation, and it shocked people. I went from curly tresses to a near brush cut. I wanted to divest myself of that Farah Fawcett sex appeal look; I wanted to be a hermit. Perhaps I was a little crazy in those days. I was working on a thesis that was secretly about my visions, which of course no-one knew and which of course I didn't finish.

Perhaps a cat got into the basket and tumbled out with a golden egg. Afterward, it became a divine cat that glowed in the dark. I think maybe that happened to one of the cats over the years... Bastet, the ancient Egyptian feline goddess, hung around, yeah, for sure.

I've never showed anyone this nest before. Oh, my kids have seen it -and agreed that it's a bit weird, but that's it. I didn't want anyone to think me too strange. It's sat, covered and unnoticed on a bookshelf in all the places I've lived since making it, grad residence, a condo, a couple of houses, a couple of apartments, it's been across the country and back. At the time that I created it, I wasn't consciously thinking of divine things; in retrospect, though, I recall being immersed in that mythology, the divine conjunctio, and was good friends with a woman professor of English Lit who was studying to become a Jungian Analyst in Zurich. The Divine Conjunctio is quite a universal mythos, and so in my voiceover I read back into the nest of hair and golden eggs. Giving it a context it never had. Thirty years ago I thought of it as a magical ritual piece, and as conceptual art. Now I show the whole thing on-line! The cut lock had something to do with Isolde, but the version of the voiceover mentioning that was too long for the video.

[You do not see the sound wave in the iMovie app for the iPhone, so deleting the ums and ahs wasn't possible.]

A nest of your hair from three decades ago, it's certainly quite a memento. Something strange, and magical about it. I can see this image, these metaphors sparking the imagination; even in me, revealing this hidden basket evokes images, thought, wonderings. And perhaps the phoenix that emerges is the revealing itself, a video, a speaking, an uncovering of a fled spirit -for the remaining egg is cracked and broken, and the other has disappeared.

If I was better at filming, it would be interesting to make a poetic video with my HD Canon Vixia camcorder and Final Cut Express. Perhaps someday I'll give it a try.

__
The bits and pieces that compose this post came from my responses on a thread at my Facebook page (with thanks to Boris, Dave, Stirling, Kim and Bent).
With special thanks to Dave for a humourous and inspiring conversation at his Facebook site on his yearly haircut, a total head shave.