Beach(ed) offerings

May we each day wake 

undaunted by the endless possibilities of colour. . . 

Happy 1 August everyone - wishing you balm and calm. 

Inside this evening's onion

What do you see?

Peninsula (c)hills; birds watching

Tuesday Poem - IT IS ALL ONE WATER*

This time nine months ago, I was working towards an exhibition titled Waters I Have Known. Wanting to share the process and the motivation behind that body of work (a response, initially, to the Deepwater Horizon crisis) I created a companion blog where I could post pics of what was taking shape in the studio along with related texts and web links. Not long before the opening, I felt prompted to open up what had been a more-or-less solo endeavour to you, my wise and generous blog friends.  A magical dialogue ensued: moved by the texts you contributed, I asked permission to incorporate your words in a series of paintings. . . We embarked on an unexpected collaborative journey - a potent and satisfying one. The process did not end there; indeed, our initial exchange (an exploration into our world's oceans and the nature of web communities) illuminated the mysterious nature and multi-fold currents of conversation that pass between us all in the blogosphere and quickly became one of the central themes of the conference paper I presented in Phoenix in May. (*Marylinn Kelly and Penelope Todd agreed to my including their lines in the subtitle and opening paragraph of that presentation. . . ) 

One thing always leads to another and, well. . . the words you contributed to Waters I Have Known have been on another adventure since October 2010 - and since Phoenix.  Some weeks ago The Pachamama Alliance announced a film contest and invited entries from across the globe for their Possible Futures initiative. There are four categories in the competition - Peace and Freedom, Fair Societies, Sustainability and Beyond and Human Fulfillment.  Happily, my 5min film - It Is All One Water - was accepted into the Sustainability and Beyond category. It draws on more of the underwater footage I collected with my friends in Explorers Cove, Antarctica and highlights one of Christina Bryer's exquisitely fragile porcelain forms, one of my humble bamboo boats (right way up, some of the time ; )) and a balletic sea star, Adamussium colbecki.  

Since submitting the movie, I've been caught up in a bunch of other things and have quite forgotten that part of the contest involves entrants notifying their friends on the web (1) that the contest is a-happening and (2) that Voting is open!  In fact, voting closes tomorrow - 19 July - which means willing participants have only a matter of hours in which to rush over to the Possible Futures website and cast their votes. EEK. . . ! (The deadline explains why I'm posting my Tuesday Poem a day early). 

I'm not much good at canvassing and those sorts of things, but am going to be bold for a moment and invite you please to watch It Is All One Water and - if it resonates with you - to follow this link and give it a 'thumbs up'? Thank you. 

http://possiblefuturesfilmcontest.org/film_25651245

*

This is the introductory paragraph I submitted with the vid. . . 

"Painterly and metaphorical in its approach, It Is All One Water addresses the wonder, power & fragility of our world's oceans. 

The ocean is a mighty equalizer – it wraps us around, drawing our continents together. During these times of global disruption, social change and environmental vulnerability, the arts have a key role to play as agents for peace, advocacy and transformation.  This short film carries within it an ethos of 'many as one' and incorporates contributions from a global network of writers, artists, scientists and musicians.'

*

Timothy Cahill recently posted a thoughtful piece about this film on his blog, Art & Document.

And here - posted with huge thanks to you - is our collaborative poem as it features in the vid. -

IT IS ALL ONE WATER

In the wide sound of the sea
the song of a vast adventure

a music that follows 
flight paths of blood 
rushing through veins.

And the roar 
of the sea is the roar
of our planet - salt, 
spray, ice, sand, 
each wave a limb 
of the earth. 

The oceans are hoarders 
of holy mysteries, generous 
to a fault; all heaving movement, 
energy and gorgeousness;
life packed into every inch 
and drop of it; ah, its secrecy! 
The way it carries so much 
of the past, the future 
and present in itself… 

Dream of the sea
and from its edge, gaze 
out to the pencil thin 
line of the horizon 
where sky and water are one 

And the sea? 

How it murmurs. 
How it murmurs. . . 

It is all one water. 
A finger in a tide pool 
brings our shores together.



A collaborative poem by Marylinn Kelly (USA), Therese Clear (USA), Pamela Morrison (NZ), Elisabeth Hanscombe (AUS), Kay McKenzie-Cooke (NZ),  Scott Odom (USA) and Claire Beynon (NZ).

*

For more Tuesday Poems, please click on the quill - 

The Clearest Way Into The Universe - for RachvB, who understands rivers

". . . Wild rivers are earth's renegades, defying gravity, dancing to their own tunes, resisting the authority of humans, always chipping away, and - eventually - always winning. And wild rivers bring out the renegade in us, enticing us to leave behind all that we've been taught and to let ourselves surrender to their special symphony. When I was in high school, I would climb out of my bedroom window for midnight canoe runs, or say I was at a slumber party when I was off rafting for the weekend. The river was a kindred spirit. I shared a secret with the river, a knowledge that the clearest way into the universe was downstream. . . " Richard Bangs

Riroriro, Korimako, fly me a line. . . CB - pastel on paper

RachvB

A Little On The Light Side

( .  .  .  from one doing both .  .  . )

And the Sea. . . how it murmurs, how it murmurs

 

". . . Look how upright they are these three; how their faces shine even while the light is dimming. Hear their voices, the lilt and lift, the tumble of words. Watch their stride all in keeping; see how the sand flicks and settles with each one’s footfall. And the sea at their right hand, how it murmurs, how it murmurs. . . " Pam Morrison

Tuesday Poem - Everything In Time

              EVERYTHING IN TIME

                      (or, One way to dispose of a failed painting)    

                      The day the passionfruit ripened, she decided 

                      it was time to free the waterfall. For years 

                      she’d kept it hanging – all rage and thunder

                      bolted to the wall, one foot two inches

                      above her rimu floor.  She’d ignored the water 

                      protesting behind glass, turned her back 

                      against the rocks, denied the plight of moss 

                      and lichen suffocating inside

                      their conservation-friendly environment.

             Wood pigeons had long since flown

             or fallen from branch to ground, wings 

             of feather and bone turned to compost, 

             cicadas petrified, mid-crawl. 

             There was no more air in there, 

             nothing left for birdsong or insect flight, 

                                                            only brittle spray

                            

                                                                                                       arrested

                 

                                                                                  in mid-air        

                 

                                                                                               and

                 

                                                                                                     a

                 

                                                                                                  thin

                 

                                                                                                   line

                 

                                                                                                      of

                                                                                                water

                 

                                                                                         drowning.

                                                                                      It was time.

                                                         

                                                                                She let it loose

                                                            over the claw-footed bath

                                                                        watched the weathered schist

                                                                                loosen its grip

                                   and with loud splitting and splashing

                                                            drench the thirsty spears

                                                                                         of lancewoods, ferns

                                                        and ancient cabbage trees.

                                 

                                                                             From the corner of her eye

                                                        she swore she spotted eels

                                                                             where there’d been no eels

                                                                                    before. If you’d arrived

                                                                                      at the house just then

                                                               you, too, might have caught them 

                                                              clambering over the cast-iron rim

                                                                     making a bee-line for the mud

                                                                        in her freshly soaked garden.

                                                 

                                                                                                                      CB

For more Tuesday Poems, please click on the quill. Dunedin-based poet David Howard is this week's TP hub editor, with the poem Cloud Silence by Graham Linsay.