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Posts Tagged ‘poetry video’

How do we face the dark? As we meet these darker days, it’s a powerful time to explore our relationship with darkness. This is the final track on DARK PRAISE, a spoken-word album on endarkenment–exploring the ways the dark nourishes us. The track, and the whole album, are available on Spotify, Apple Music, or anywhere you listen to music. You can also purchase the album to support its makers on Bandcamp.

Poetry by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
Music by Steve Law
Art by Marisa S. White, “Grace & Gravity”
Video by Tony Jeannette

To Face the Dark

To face the dark,
one does not need a light.
Nor does one need a watch,
a feather, a melody, a sword, a pen.
One doesn’t even need a friend.
To face the dark,
one needs only to face the dark.
There is something easier then
about the facing, when we know
we need no preparation.
Nothing is asked of us except
the willingness to face the dark,
the willingness to pause
in that moment when we
cannot see, cannot know,
cannot float on the sea of habit,
cannot fly on the feathers of routine.
But already, I’ve taken this too far.
It’s so simple, the invitation,
that it’s easy to miss what is asked.
Not a journey. Not even a step.
Just the chance to face the dark,
to meet yourself in that facing—
and to notice what being erased
and what’s doing the erasing. 

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How do we speak of grief with our children? With our beloveds? Sometimes even the softest words feel too crass. Sometimes, the night allows us to be together in wordless times in deeply intimate ways. This poem, “Talking with My Daughter About Grief,” was written after my son died in 2021. It’s part of DARK PRAISE, a spoken-word album on endarkenment–exploring the ways the dark nourishes us.

The video features the amazing Steve Law on guitar, with art by Marisa S. White (Happy Birthday, Marisa!) and it’s made by Tony Jeannette. You can download the album for free or listen to DARK PRAISE on Spotify, Apple Music, or anywhere you stream music. You can also buy the album for $15 to support our efforts on bandcamp

Talking With My Daughter About Grief

We lie in the dark
and speak about anything
but what I ache to speak about.
Some part of me longs
to find the words like search lights
that will help us find
what we don’t yet know
we are looking for.
Or a black light
that might help us see
what is valuable right here,
but invisible to our ordinary eyes.
I try to infuse my words
with candlelight, but somehow
even this feels too brash,
too aggressive, and so
we lie in the dark
and I let the moon
do all the talking.
Oh, waning crescent,
you know when to shine,
when to simply be held
by the dark.

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Well, as we prepare for mushroom season in the San Juan Mountains, it seems the perfect time to share this poem, “Mycelial,” part of the Dark Praise spoken word album I made with my friend guitarist Steve Law. The album, available for free download anywhere you listen to music, honors all the way the dark nourishes us. And this poem explores the necessary, even beautiful layers of grief. I love what Tony Jeannette has done with the art by Marisa. S. White … how the veiled woman continues to rise up–like grief, like love, burgeoning out of nothing. Please watch it, comment, share it. 

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Go spelunking in the depths of your imagination. Join me in the cave for a few moments in this video from my new album, DARK PRAISE, created with guitarist Steve Law and artist Marisa S. White. Album and track available for free download on Spotify, Apple Music, or wherever you listen to music. Please share!

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A Poetry Video! I love this project–poets writing about land conservation. I was one of many poets who contributed to a beautiful book, Writing the Land: Currents, giving voice to 22 lands from across the country. I wrote for the Colorado Land Trust about the Potter Ranch located between Ridgway and Ouray in southwest Colorado. Thanks to Lis McLoughlin for her amazing poet-wrangling skills and to Elizabeth MacLeod Burton-Crow for her skills putting together this video of me reading on the land. If you, too, feel strongly about exploring our relationship with the land we live on and land conservation, check out the book and the project.

At the Potter Ranch

with thanks to Mike Potter, Ridgway, Colorado

On a day when the human world feels like a fist—
when it clenches and squeezes,
fierce and relentless—
I leave the four walls and sit
on an old fallen cottonwood tree,
long and silver and smooth.
There, in the center of a wide river valley,
I sit. And sit. And sit.
And the tall green grasses
and the graceful white yarrow don’t refuse me.
And the murmur of waves
and the musk-yellow scent of sweet clover
replace any thoughts, save being here.
The ring of red mesas
with their vast crowns of spruce
form a vase great enough to hold it all—
and I am gathered into spaciousness
along with dark green sedges and white butterflies,
with the tantrums of brambles
and the tangled flight patterns
of thousands on thousands of dark tiny flies.
A flock of birds rise all at once from the river
and my heart and my eyes rise, too.
A long time passes before I am quiet enough
to hear the chorus in the willows,
the bright clicking of insect wings,
the silence that weaves through everything.
Then the flickers come close
and the dragonflies draw nearer in.
And I current. I cloud. I leaf. I wing.
I leave unwalled, un-selved.
The spaciousness comes with me.

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Hello Friends,

If you were unable to join us live for our April 3, 2020, reading, you can catch me and my friend Albert Flynn DeSilver doing a special online reading … about an hour long total. We each read for 15 minutes at the beginning, then open it up for a discussion based on viewer comments about the role of poetry in our lives right now.

I read exclusively poems written in the last three weeks–all of them found here on A Hundred Falling Veils–all of them speaking to the world we are in right now.

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this heavy shell
I sometimes forget it, too
is holy

*

your eyes
everywhere I look
your eyes

*

god needed a flute
tried blowing into me—no note
still too much of me here

*

it sure does make
a lousy guard dog
pride

*

every pore, every
bone, every hair, every cell
an altar

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Tired and cold
she came to a clearing
beside the river
and set herself down.
There, the moon.
The moon.

*

Not once had she dreamed
to bring the moon any closer.
Not once had she wished
it would move any faster.

*

How to stay in this place
of not wanting
not needing
not wishing
not hoping
not reaching, not knowing.

*

At the edge of whatever
she thought she knew
she leaned
until the only thing
touching her
was nothing.

*

Sometimes a story
ends. Sometimes it
plays again. Sometimes
we see through a story
to see ourselves.

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