we are not [ listening]

•June 9, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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A film for Big Noise Festival 2015.
Music: Ohara Hale. The Reeds ( in Moonlight)
Text: Beatrice Jarvis
Film by Beatrice Jarvis
Berlin footage: Benjamin Bailey


we are not [ listening ] where does memory hide. It comes early and we are late. It takes us and wrecks us. Dust. Ash. Rubble. All to moss. We are not

it is a matter of attention and memory in this quiet place that neither you nor I know. Such richness we destroy. Dust passes through our hands. We are lost. Lost for a sense of never quite becoming and we shall never know.

this is the land we cannot forget. Everything underfoot has a name. Is named. Each anonymous grass, repeats a history. I gather your fragments and store them in the pocket of my man made smock. To be an imitation, to cover the old façade with breezeblock and stop it from telling any secrets.
with measured steps, with deliberation, to walk a quiet path, between time and the grey fold. Hide me here, and I will sit, naked and think of marble and skin. Whose voice is this, beneath the shoals of our measured steps, the ship wreck of ambiguity, I am clutching at you, you fall, out, and out back to the place.
[my] deepest breath will bring no more air, the walls are departed, where does memory hide, what do these walls contain. The tree speaks, enlarged and bulbous with such acquisition. I will not beg you, the soil wraps me, the sky melts in hot pool of darkness. Unclench your teeth and loosen your jaw, do you continually bare this need, are you entertainment, clap, clap your hands.

Tell me a secret.

where are you. the stars have broken into pieces and they still clap. The man has no voice and he does not speak my name. The stars in spasm, the stars in cloud are still present. Do not touch this memory. My flesh crawls with it. Writhing in pastness and forgotten intimacies.

The candles have all burnt down and the palace falls to moss and ruin. Who are you. I walk beside the swing of your pulse and your heart pumps in both directions at once, the lines of my body and your heart, does memory have soul. The construction will not cease to frown. The asphalt courses through thick blood, progress will stop nothing . I breathe cement.

[my] self falls into marble and the crowds relinquish. This show has always been over. The hill takes me and the sky hits me. Where does memory hide. The man sits against the fresco and rubs it off with his nylon shirt. This is where the heart is.

we are not [ listening ] and

the day breaks again.

[Beatrice Jarvis]

This is not a manifesto.

•June 9, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Groundwork Residency

Tracing the Pathway at Milton Keynes Arts Center.

May 2015

Beatrice Jarvis. In collaboration with Dr Bob Jarvis

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This is an exploration my current strands of research around MK, exploring the city as site of memory and archive.

For more information about this project please see:
miltonkeynesartscentre.org/groundwork/

This is an exploration of sites of MK in the personal geography of my father, Dr Jarvis.
A full interview can be heard here soundcloud.com/beatrice-jarvis/bob-jarvis-talks-to-beatrice-jarvis-about-mk

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” Into the silence, which was also at times a roar, of my thoughts and questions forever returning to myself to search there for an explanation for my life and its purpose, into this concentrated tiny hub of dense silent noise.
The field that you are standing before appears to have the same proportions as your own life.”

I asked the city to dance with me on a tuesday afternoon.

How can I walk there

In this intensive eight day residency working with memory, cultural history, movement mapping, writing, exploring and finding ways to understand place through oral history, collected narrative and embodied urban mapping.

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The Duet of the Body in the City.

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( are we dancing yet)

Collaborative and unbuilt studies towards unknown utopian geographies of Milton Keynes.

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I would like to thank you Ashleigh Griffith, Cara Davies and Aaron James and Groundwork: Tracing the Pathway Project. Thanks also to Deirdre and Mike at Fulwell Court, and all at MK Arts Centre for all the support.

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études en bleu

•June 9, 2015 • Leave a Comment

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études en bleu is an on going collaboration I am making with the colour Blue.

Working with landscape, improvisation, body and mind, I am studying through movement what the colour Blue might mean to me.

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bleu nu | Dans le sillage du printemps
For no one really knows what a colour is
where it is
or
whether it is.
{ can it die, does it have a heart }
What if I told you I had fallen in love with a colour?
I shall speak this as a confession.
A spell I have fought to stay under and fought to get from under
in turns.
But what kind of love really is it?
Do not fool yourself and call it sublimity.
I am to be not a student of longing, but of light.
dans la mémoire
dans l’espérance

bleu neu [ étude ii ]

l’échec de langauge.
une complainte de mots
les mots partent et la scène est laissé à nu.
le cœur bat.
les supports de souffle.
I continue to fool myself with the affects of language.
The word.
The empty white paper.
waits
for me.
yet I cannot enter the space it lays bare.
The words are left cold.
Alone on the page.

bleu neu [ étude iii ]
– mais que faire si la pluie se dissout tous les mots –
Music by:
Dakota Suite & Emanuele Errante – The North Green Down – A Worn Out Life (With Cello) – (lidar productions)

Perhaps all words will be dissolved by the rain.
How cold the fingers in the snow.
How cold the heart.
The words are falling and melting, fleeting as the snow.
The wind wishes to take them all away.
She can no longer say no.
How quickly the words take to the wind. Flight and abandon.
She sits nursing the empty white pages where the words used to play.

la page est laissée vide.
Mais que faire si il ne existe qu’un seul mot.
Le papier se envole dans le vent.

bleu nue
(Exploration iiii)
Music: 1. Nadia Sirota: Etudes I ( Composed by Nico Muhly)
2. Dakota Suite: Very Early One Morning On Old Road


i take a book for a walk
i imagine it may say a word to me
it says nothing
no words
it watches me
the pages stare.
the words race then to the sky
leaving me quite alone.
between the spaces the words leave
there can be silence
as the words take to the wind

‘ The old man closed his eyes
and held his gift close to his heart,
” I have danced in the dream world
and danced in the dead world.
My past is now my present
which is now my future.
I am an old man
and I am a life time
of childrens songs.
I am gone.
There is no time in space
only movement and silence
and cold.
The universe rolls..
a great surging tide
of enormous size.
You will become
a white ball of light
forever, within the
boundaries of the freedom of silence. ‘
( M. Robinson)
—-
The words are still in the wind
I will see if my net can catch
even one
so i might hold it in
my hand.
——

bleu nue [ étude v ]
Music: The Tumbled Sea: Melody III

The hawk and the fish.
the water and the words.
The body and the earth
sun and the mud under my fingernails
Perhaps you are here.
Perhaps you are hiding in the trees.

perhaps all the words which I lost are hiding the trees.
the river takes all the words away.
the sun’s glare take all their sadness
the words are seeking a peace
that the trees conceal.

In memory 6 | 2 | 14

bleu nue
étude vi
Music: { recordings of piano experiments for children ballet lessons 2010 }

peut-être la terre chante les paroles.
peut-être les mots sont de plus en plus que les cultures.
peut-être les mots se cachent dans la boue de mes ongles.
Le ciel est bleu
mais je ne vois que rouge
mes yeux sont ouverts
les mots sont tous fermés
la lumière et l’espoir de mots écarte.
noir remplace à la fois bleu et rouge


bleu nue [ étudier vii ]
Music: Max Richter, Daniel Hope, Konzerthaus Kammerorchester Berlin & Andre de Ridder
Recomposed by Max Richter: Vivaldi, The Four Seasons: Spring 1

Perhaps it is when we stop
to search
and seek
no thing
no ending
and no begining
to stand
thinking of orange
bathed in naked blue
to seek to write the sky
à la recherche sans fin d’un bleu nue
écrit la couleur du ciel

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The search for blue
the love of blue.

The hope of blue.

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Tá muid damhsa ar an chiorcal

•December 2, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Tá muid damhsa ar an chiorcal,
Le aon thús agus gan deireadh,

 

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The body is a microcosm of the earth
The processes of nature are guidelines to aesthetics
Nature is a healer.

To live the experience of nature,
We are dancing the circle,
With no beginning and no end,
Yet we will begin and we will end,
But in our ability to perceive as such may be faulted and limit us.

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We can dance the earth with the earth. 

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Our breathing mirrors the winds of the world,

Our metabolism akin to fire,

When we take in nourishment, we make a little fire inside of ourselves,

We assimilate,

Our skin constantly renews and sheds,

As leaves falling each autumn,

Our body’s move and change in cyclic ways,

Just as and with the earth,

And just as the earth, we cycle between lightness and dark,

The seasons, the day and the night

Akin to each soul.

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Let the image of bird come.

let the image of an animal come.

Let the image of float,

softly softly,

The duet of body and earth.

A constant,

How little do we tune?

Each foot step a new duet.

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‘ To be in conversation is surely to live in the open.

To be in conversation is to think and feel on your feet and not to speak of prepared positions.

To be in conversation is to be who you are as who you are.
It is to live in what is not yet in the other

And what they are leading you to.

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It is when centers meet that the world is changed.

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To live in serious conversation is to live with the converse

To live in and with the contradiction

With opposites

With the other than we are

To be a place of meeting

Not a place of judgment.

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To be in conversation is to enter into what flows

In and amongst and between you.

To be present in conversation is to speak of and speak to

the world

now.’

(Mair. M. Between Thee and Me.)

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Be still.. breathe.

let go, the need to do anything.

sense stillness, emptiness, at the bottom of the breath,

Pause in the turning moment, between one breath and the next,

 

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Open the inside of the body,

Open the pathways of bone, open the skin,

let the body spread open like a sail to the wind.

Move into the spaces in and around the body.

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Sense endings and beginnings.

Sense the possibility of movement.

Interval, silence, emptiness.

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Listen to the space between one moment and the next.

Let the body breathe, make room,

sense the body.

Sense the horizon.

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‘ Listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms out of silence.’

( Rilke)

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“ Everything that gives light is dependent on something to which it clings, in order that it may continue to shine. Thus, sun and moon cling to heaven, and grain, grass and trees cling to earth.’ (I Ching)

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‘ To dance is human, and humanity almost universally expresses itself in dance. Dance interweaves with other aspects of human life, such as communication and learning, belief systems, social realizations and political dynamics, loving and fighting, and urbanization and change, and evolutionary development of the human species. When dance is surprised for moral, religious or political reasons, it raises, phoenix like to assert the essence of humanity. Dance appears primary among aesthetic forms and, the instrument of dance, the human body, contributes to other forms, which use its spatial, temporal and kinetic elements. Such dance dynamics preserve in the broad spectrum of non dance aesthetic phenomena.’ Hanna. L. J (1979) To Dance is Human

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To question only lightly.

To return to the sensation of the hand on the heart,

the sun on the chest,

the wind the hair,

the seal swimming beside,

and the boots which fell in the sea

after falling over.

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to keep light

and

to stay afloat

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and

to keep circling

and. 

.

( Explorations of Carraig Ceasail; Eire. November 2014) 

Is féidir linn a theipeann

•November 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

iarracht
Is féidir linn a theipeann
chomh fada agus a fhios againn seo
íomhánna ar ár selves
Tá anaithnid
is é seo an íomhá
Titeann sí i cupán caife agus drowns
ní bheidh sé a shábháil.
Déanfaimid theipeann
Ag pointe amháin
Maireann aon nóiméad

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Anois.

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Gach go bhfanann
áirithe
An bhfuil
anála
Tagann agus téann
An taoide a réamh-mheastachán
As ár teipeanna féideartha
I roinnt chuimhneacháin

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Níl aon cheann de seo, nithe

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B’fhéidir gurb é sin go léir is gá dúinn

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sometimes when I close my eyes
i can listen to the chatter of the spiders
as they weave their webs before dawn

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to be like a tree.
is impossible
but as a human
i can reflect on my interpretation of what sensing a tree might appear as
this may not be apparent to anyone other than myself
perhaps i do not need to share this detail

the experience of standing in the rain under a tree
I am breathing in
I am breathing out.

 

 

 

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once upon a time;

only time for those moments did not exist,
and the clocks had all stopped
and the compass was stuck
and we were here
the walls ran with water

we are here

the morning lays in wait
the lark promises.

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what enchants and and what excites?

the images are falling.

our hands met in mud.

a chello on a hill

the performance of taking an ice cold bath

counting the ravens

a marching band follows you.

to texture and scent.

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far from the widening field
in a narrow town street

that is where we began
you with a broken branch
time space energy direction

to give each other attention
to listen to each sound

the film breathes in and out
the film coils and turns in on itself
it begins to die
the maker watches
the pen out of ink
the images will all fade

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making the transition into the light and into the dark
accepting that both states can be present
and absent

and when i dance
i am almost human again
all the emotion comes flooding back
and back and back
and moss listens
a wild rush
a stream
a waterfall

and I stand still.

still.
But then I realise even my blood is dancing.

there can be no stillness.

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perhaps this is all we need.
the ferns sing a lament
to the fading sky and the rains march in
the scene is flooded and the moss
catches the tears.

 

Explorations of Gleann Eatharla ( November 2014) with special thanks to Jynx for such hospitality and kindness.

à la page vide

•November 9, 2014 • Leave a Comment

The pages remain blank.

the image forever undeveloped.

to close the eyes

and imagine the future

for a past that cannot exist

and a present which remains

now.

untouched.

to keep the eye lids closed

for to see

means that one will never see for the first time again.

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The tide comes and go
The images come and go

The dark room as refuge.

The moment before each image emerges
when all you that you think you know of what you are about to see
could be
totally disproved.

There I will wait.

In that precise moment
and I wish never to leave it.

there I shall dwell a life time.

Never to be sure.
Never to know.

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” what is knocking?
what is knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody that wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels,

Admit them, admit them.” ( DH Lawrence)

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the tide collects our sorrows and joys
each wave a new symphony
the act of taking a walk

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” perhaps, i thought, he liked the gloom, as I liked sunlight,
because both put objects into a relationship with each other” ( Winifred Nicholson)

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Perhaps i left it in the sand.

the day the heart ballon burst and killed a fish .

the day the empty page filled up with words that will remain unspoken.

this is the day i departed.

the waves watched.

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acceleration. adversity. crushing a plum in ones hand so the juice runs all the way down the wrist to the arm.
stand back and take a breath.

This is where i wish to remain.

let me stay here.

please.

now.

before the memory fades with the light.

this is where i will stand

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the past has yet to be revealed.

the empty sheet

does not demand

our faces

your heart

as brief as photographs

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here and now

i will remain.

stać się las.

•November 4, 2014 • Leave a Comment

to become forest.
studies in interaction .

how to become a part of this earth.

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to the endangered and vanishing

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As the crickets’ soft autumn hum
is to us
so are we to the trees
as are they
to the rocks and the hills.

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to the endangered and vanished ones.

To hold memory

and let it fall.

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To hold dust and let the wind take it.

to press a cold rock against my lips

to stick my tongue out into the rain

to get my feet so wet i can no longer feel them

to press my spine against a tree

to mould myself into sand

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How to become a part of this earth

the metal compositions of blood

rust, skin, iron, bone.

rot, decay, birth and growth.

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the gift of pen and paper

the gift of a seed.

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‘Humans are tuned for relationships. The eyes, the skin, the ears, the tongue and nostril , all are gates where our body receives nourishment of otherness. The landscape of shadowed voices, these feathered bodies and antlers and tumbling streams, these breathing shapes, our family, the beings with whom we are engaged, with whom we struggle and suffer and celebrate.

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The colour of the sky, the rush of waves- every aspect of sensuous could draw us into a relationship fed with curiosity and spiced with danger.

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Every sound was voice. every scrape, every blunder was a meeting – with Thunder, with oak, with Dragonfly. And from all of these relationships our collective sensibilities were nourished.

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As humans we are well acquainted with the needs and capacities of the human body. we live in our bodies and so know. from within the possibilities of our form. We cannot know with the same familiarity or intimacy, the livd experience of a grass snake or a snapping turtle; we cannot readily experience the precise sensations of humming bird sipping nectar from a flower or a rubber tree soaking up sunlight. And yet we do know how it feels to sip from a fresh pool of water or to bask and stretch in the sun. Our experience may indeed be a variant of these modes of sensitivity, never the less we cannot as humans, précisely experience the living sensations of another,

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We do not know with full clarity. their desires and motivations, we cannot know. and can never be sure that we know what they know. ‘

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‘From the tree of life
leaf after leaf falls around me
Oh world delighted with ecstasy,
How you fill me at last,
How you fill me with weariness
and make me drunk !
Whatever still glows today
is soon lost’ ( Hesse)

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Reáchtáil an lámh ar Tonn

•October 16, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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Ag siúl Compás Aon gan.

Reáchtáil an lámh ar Tonn

 
Le bhuíochas sin Deirdre , Aonghus agus Seamus .
Rinneadh scannánú ar Inis Oírr , Deireadh Fómhair 2014
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( Notes from Inis Oírr )
How to hold the gaze of a comerant?
The sound of a typewriter on a cold stone floor.
Fresh Eggs and egg shells. 
Egg shells on a plate.
The solemn fish and the owl sit at the cold table.
The day breaks into pieces, 
there is no bin man to collect the pieces here
so the chicken looks on
The pieces of broken day
are taken in his white porcelain hands
and thrown to the gulls
they eat with fury 
no care for rampant fiends.
The dark comes now
humming to the sound of stones.
To allow time. 
Time to heal
Time to think
time. 
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The clock is out the window
The cows are anxious
and there are no apples.
Laps around the island
wrapped in stale cotton wool
for what is lost can be gained.
To export seaweed
The wreck forms the main attraction.
There are no shops to send postcards.
A cup of tea with memories.
The jelly fish linger, eating wetsuits like turkish delight.
The practice of making a training.
How to exert the body without struggle?

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“It is impossible to design silent armour for a ghost” ( Geilgud)
Where does the soul hide? I want to become a transcendal materialist and live on a rock I tell the seal, he laughs and falls back into the waves for another dance.
the possibility of transformation “ is endless, but the bones and skin do not become moss and rocks.
Everything is always beyond expansion?

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the soft relation of transformation, a relational praxis, the lexicon of the phenomena beyond the  veins and the flesh. the infinite lexicon?
There can be no silence.

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I repeat as mantra as night sneaks about is veil and cloak.
A project of critical thought ( lies unwritten washed by waves)
How do we speak so many different languages and yet have the total inability to understand one another? The Owl laughs now.
Satre has stopped developing a method and leaves the book unfinished.
Run.
He strares in to the black.
Run.
Concrete, iron, steel and glass.

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Moss, agate, quartz and hay.
My pillow is stuffed with fish.
My hair wilts seaweed.

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” Where is the internet”
” We lay our hearts into this turf foundation”
” So what happened here”
The geopathology report has no conclusion and the rocks looks disappointed.
The Irish Men’s shed association have cancelled their feild trip
( who is watching, when and how)
” we watch with our ears and listen with our skin “
The process of rust
the skin.
” the management of visability”
The word will not be dominant, but word, shape, gesture and form will all be of equal footing
Plastic, polyester, rubble, ruin and dust.
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The wooden boat which sinks and surfaces as driftwood for the fire which burns the books.
The seal and the owl have a conflict of intentions, outside of the hierarchy of crituque, the sound of thunder roars.
Perhaps film is something that curates relations. The formality of the text is lost to another list, the seal asks; ” who has the right to decide what reality is represented? “
The comerants giggle on their palace.
The rain comes.
How to stay warm?
How to use a map?
Collecting the ash of the last fire.
Can objects distract from a person?
to become a memory as a collection of objects, rather than embue the human spirit?
A person becomes a collection of words; the warm hand as ice, the word takes precedence, concealing the onset of the winter.
Moss, fern, mud and turf.
A journey only of leaving fragments.

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Plunging into cold water to warm the heart ( or at least make it beat)
run run, he whispers, run run
and the donkey watches.
I read the Turkish Irish Herald and remain silent.
The commerants do not even look up to say goodbye.

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staidéir i flóra

•October 15, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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the language of flowers

there can be so stillness . 

and when then does the stone turn to water?

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walk on and on. 

through and through. 

the cow laughs at the waters edge.

How does the grass sing? 

The crow narrates the ocean.

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What time is it?

The rock laughs.

Herald the owls.

night potion, a parrot and a tea cup.

smashed vases and broken flowers.

he loves me. he loves me not

the forget me not dies. 

There is no language which can be spoken to describe this feeling. 

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Labhras silíní  Laurel, Cherry  Prunus laurocerasus
Laíon na trá  Sea Beet  Beta vulgaris ssp. maritima
Leadán úcaire  Teasel, Wild  Dipsacus fullonum
Leadán úcaire beag   Teasel, Small  Dipsacus pilosus
Leaithín  Avens, Mountain  Dryas octopetala
Leith uisce  Butterwort, Large-flowered  Pinguicula grandiflora
Leith uisce beag  Butterwort, Pale  Pinguicula lusitanica
Leitís bhalla  Lettuce, Wall  Mycelis muralis
Lile Fhíonáin  Lily, Kerry  Simethis mattiazzii
Líon beag  Flax, Pale  Linum bienne
Lochall  Brooklime  Veronica beccabunga
Luachair dhearg  Flowering-rush  Butomus umbellatus
Luibh bhléine  Aster, Sea  Aster tripolium
Luibh na bhfear gonta  Bedstraw, Heath  Galium saxatile
Luibh na seacht ngábh  Wall-rue  Asplenium ruta-muraria
Lus an bhainne  Milkwort, Common  Polygala vulgaris
Lus an bhalla  Wallflower  Erysimum cheiri
Lus an dá phingin  Creeping-jenny  Lysimachia nummularia
Lus an easpaig  Ground-elder  Aegopodium podagraria
Lus an Ghaill  Sea-purslane  Atriplex portulacoides
Lus an ghiolla  Lousewort  Pedicularis sylvatica
Lus an óir  Mustard, Hedge  Sisymbrium officinale
Lus an sparáin  Shepherd’s-purse  Capsella bursa-pastoris
Lus an treacha  Speedwell, Thyme-leaved  Veronica serpyllifolia
Lus an tsagairt  Cow-wheat, Common  Melampyrum pratense
Lus an tsailte  Sea-milkwort  Glaux maritima
Lus an uille  Burnet, Salad  Sanguisorba minor
Lus Bealtaine  Mayweed Sea  Tripleurospermum maritimum
Lus beatha  Betony  Betonica officinalis
Lus braonach  Dropwort  Filipendula vulgaris
Lus buí Bealtaine  Marsh-marigold  Caltha palustris
Lus buí na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Common  Pulicaria dysenterica
Lus Cholm Cille  Pimpernel, Yellow  Lysimachia nemorum
Lus corráin  Sneezewort  Achillea ptarmica
Lus cré  Speedwell, Heath  Veronica officinalis
Lus cré balla  Speedwell, Wall  Veronica arvensis
Lus cre coille  Speedwell, Wood  Veronica montana
Lus cré corraigh  Speedwell, Marsh  Veronica scutellata
Lus cré eidhneach  Speedwell, Ivy-leaved  Veronica hederifolia
Lus cré garraí  Field-speedwell, Common  Veronica persica
Lus cré léana  Field-speedwell, Green  Veronica agrestis
Lus cré réileán  Speedwell, Slender  Veronica filiformis
Lus cré talún  Speedwell, Germander  Veronica chamaedrys
Lus croí  Pansy, Field  Viola arvensis
Lus cúran min   Hawk’s-beard, Smooth  Crepis capillaris
Lus deartán  Feverfew  Tanacetum parthenium
Lus garbh na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Bilbao  Conyza floribunda
Lus gloine buan  Glasswort, Perennial  Sarcocornia perennis
Lus gorm na ndreancaidí  Fleabane, Blue  Erigeron acer
Lus liath aille  Sea-lavender, Rock  Limonium binervosum
Lus liath na Boirne  Sea-lavender, Western  Limonium recurvum ssp. pseudotranswallianum
Lus liath na mara  Sea-lavender, Lax-flowered  Limonium humile
Lus mhic rí  Thyme, Basil  Clinopodium acinos
Lus míonla buí  Forget-me-not, Changing  Myosotis discolor
Lus míonla goirt  Forget-me-not, Field  Myosotis arvensis
Lus moileas  Woodruff  Galium odoratum
Lus mór  Foxglove  Digitalis purpurea
Lus na bhfaithní  Spurge, Sun  Euphorbia helioscopia
Lus na gaoithe  Anemone, Wood  Anemone nemorosa
Lus na gealaí  Honesty  Lunaria annua
Lus na gloine  Glassworts  Salicornia agg.
Lus na haincise  Squinancywort  Asperula cynanchica
Lus na hiothlann  Pineappleweed  Matricaria discoidea
Lus na holla  Pirri-pirri-bur  Acaena novae-zelandiae
Lus na Maighdine Muire  St John’s-wort, Perforate Hypericum perforatum
Lus na mban sí  Flax, Fairy  Linum catharticum
Lus na meall Muire  Mallow Common  Malva sylvestris
Lus na móinte  Bog-rosemary  Andromeda polifolia
Lus na ndeor  Mind-your-own-business  Soleirolia soleirolii
Lus na pingine  Pennywort Marsh  Hydrocotyle vulgaris
Lus na pléisce  Balsam, Indian  Impatiens glandulifera
Lus na seilge  Spleenwort, Maidenhair  Asplenium trichomanes
Lus na teanga  Adder’s Tongue  Ophioglossum vulgatum
Lus na tine  Willowherb, Rosebay  Chamerion angustifolium
Lus na Tríonóide  Willowherb, Great  Epilobium hirsutum
Lus nathrach  Viper’s-bugloss  Echium vulgare
Lus síoda  Ragged-Robin  Silene flos-cuculi
Lus súgach   Asparagus, Wild  Asparagus prostratus
Lus taghla  Orchid, Fragrant  Gymnadenia conopsea
Lus taghla na móna  Orchid, Heath Fragrant  Gymnadenia borealis
Lusrán grándubh  Alexanders  Smyrnium olusatrum
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Dont carry all the rocks in your pockets.
The fish eats a waves and spits it out.
the rain comes
the mist alludes some secrecy 
the cows walk on.
the scene is left cold. 
 
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 and oh and oh.
he sings as we walk .
the stick, the horse, the carrot.
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 lament lament 
the summer waves.
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 How the ferns will turn gold to rot.
How the thistle will loose its thorns. 
The language is fading with the sun.
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lay your head down
the girl lays 
perhaps the rain will wash her away.
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dont fight time
it will win
and there is no prize. 
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taiscéalaíocht na Boirne. October 2014.
Le bhuíochas sin do Deirdre, Aonghus, and Seamus

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muid féin ag titim chun píosaí

•October 8, 2014 • Leave a Comment

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“when the sea cries who will listen” asks the seagull to the rock.

a fish listens in, bemused by the concern.

” I listen” he jauntily replies; ” I will always listen”

The seagull looks on at the sea as it howls and spits out trees.

The rocks wait for time to pass.

Time does pass.

The fish waits at the shore for the seagull.

The seagull does not appear.

A tree emerges beaten by the sea.

” Tell me a story” asks the fish, bold and impatient.

The tree sighs, a long sustained breath, looks longingly at the fish and in silence, crashes itself to the rock.

The fish looks on, a little jealous at their close union.

The rocks offer no comfort to the beaten tree, only a surface on which to rest until the sea comes dashing back to claim its prize.

the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave

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squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,

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replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.
( Neurda )

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The sea watches me.

It does not speak

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It will not speak.

Casting trees.

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Holding trees.

The treasure of seaweed.

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Falling, always falling, the gaze beyond.

” The world is nowhere, my love, if not within” ( Rilke)

They stand at the foot of the mountains.
And there she embraces him, weeping.

He climbs alone, on the mountains of primal grief.
And not once do his footsteps sound from his silent fate.

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But if the endlessly dead woke a symbol in us,
see, they would point perhaps to the catkins,
hanging from bare hazels, or
they would intend the rain, falling on dark soil in Spring-time. –

And we, who think of ascending
joy, would feel the emotion,
that almost dismays us,
when a joyful thing falls. ( Rilke)

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The seagull has watched the whole thing, the lady is wet now, sodden and cold and the tree floats on the waves. Maybe she cries a little. The sea gull cannot tell as the rain comes now. The lady or girl, or human retreats back into the caves and tries to become a fish so that she can join the tree.

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the waves have been listening.

The rocks have been listening.

the waves depart, leaving a calm sea now.

The seagull shudders at such commotion.

The rocks wait, sometimes they contain to bare witness to so much sadness they weep as the sea, sometimes they bare witness to so much beauty they grow flowers.

The rocks will always wait.

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( muid féin ag titim chun píosaí / Tá mé ach aoi ar an sail seo. is an ongoing conversation with the landscape of Devon. All images and film copyright to Beatrice Jarvis and may not be reproduced without permission.)