Tangled Garden, a videopoem


*A Floral Opera* She, singing in dense woods, tangle of leaves and bushes offer multiple entryways and exits for musing on her life. Who is she? She dislodges her memories into pulsations of desire. She is a pack, a crowd, a protean. Enfolded with dinosaur bones, blood platelets that shine with metallic light, grammars of skin grafts, a voice streaming Saturn’s moon rings. A molecular frenzy, like mating snakes. A wolf-pack becoming ant-hull. A hive of honey bees copulating with orchids. Her eyes are blue when they aren’t brown and the story is staccato when it’s not lyrical, or sometimes burning for lift-off. A symphony of hungry animals. Woven sticks, equations, leaves, light, bank accounts, vines, pollen, air, poetry, Godel’s theorem pulses, we can’t know ourselves fully, the mirror can’t see it’s own reflection. The garden curves into itself, frilly poesies in toe-taps. Tattoos on the tongue. Pink wing feathers from fleeing flamencos. An entryway; a capriccio. A blast of light like a vein, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa levitating; a sentry’s stop box. The story floats from divergent angles. Then the land inside her cracks, tilts she is displaced, or falls, or is stalked by hungry monsters in the green brimming lacery. A rhinestone belly button floats, a fish eye or carpel of petals. She screams in the key of G-minor, pitch perfect. Hips slide from the spine, curl into inner ear drums. Boxes of seagrass line her beds of reeds. Everybody’s a mass, a crowd, an extinction. Even the garden gods, who are molar snails, chlorophyll cells of sumac leaves, Janus-faced earthworms. Dionysian grapes in the garden, fermented wine in the ocular nerve. Insects crawling with viral mites. Clouds that shine radiation. Speeding migrations of decay, resurrection of mulch. Death is the new life. You can’t run when your tendons, sticks of raw nerves, or grass-thickened mud. Or fly, bat beaten wings, or unfurl like a flower, stellar star dust. Root shafts, split into rhizomes, sluice from intersecting moments. Grasses, leaves, hearts, wars, lovings. Stories unwind from the edges, middle, thrust like a wave, across blades, glade to glade. Grafts, crossings, complexity, an inter- weaving mass of green fire, a ball of moss. She sings without words, scats, riffs, a semiotic of songs, angel of passion, intensities burning from note to note, transforming. A deterritorialized voice, substrata of language, contralto of rhythms and pulsations, glottal vibrations in the lung bursting breath in neoclassical metal arias. The space between earth and moon where the phantoms, the ghosts or the wild night gardens of us. A floral song of of the rampant fertility of the multifloral. ~~~ O, you beautiful woman… …from across the way, your spirit awakens the soul calls white light in the green fire …from Tehran, Baghdad, Kosovo… …Rwanda… …Egypt, Israel, Palestine… you are a lady of sand, a lady of tears you are… a lady of hope …you cross the threshold you are creation the womb of life, the green fire… …birth… I hear your cries O, sweet mother of us all… I hear your tears great mother earth in the green fire of life creativity …of the soul …creativity of the body, of matter, of cells, you watch with your green eye of fire you are our eyes watching you Cambric wisdom the lament, the life we are losing …our species the fire in the garden of green feeding the babies …the recycling of life streams of feeding …energy… energy of growth. *In the Hands of the Garden Gods* Spring light suns the grasses Elements commune up there Air, the mana is everywhere. Sweet, simple friend Pale red hair, godmotherly words, Green lace dusts her features It is fungus. Why, my guest of honour You transform as we walk Crossing the fields of Providence. Tiny leaves enwrap the skin Mummified foliage Burgundy-green petals cling Layer on layer over blood; When covered do you die A sexless hermaphrodite The earth’s human plant. A Daphne? You are old, perverted. Strip by strip you’re encased, An unholy garden party guest. The others watch, seated And sip lime, gin and soda; How to introduce you? We are told quite succinctly Stay away from dreams in poetry. Moreover, natural is unnatural Creepy and viney, you scare us, Heavy and pendulous Not at all like a laurel tree You are a pun, and not the sort of tree The decadent rich care to have. Come, my lady of sheaths This is not your millenia; Come, my lady of wreathes Who can wear your leaves? A suave gentleman interrupts Dandy-up in spring clothes The season’s fashion White, light and airy; His eyes ward your weird colour Enigmatic nod of knowledge He, an oracle; you, an utterance. The archetypal party craze Is on: Eleusis or vine god, who cares We eat wheat cakes and honey We eat raw meat and snake eggs We drink cool, sweet mead. We unsophisticate, frenzy and glut We unmake our worlds Gathering words, they are sucked in. The butler’s dish floats, jaded glade A culinary prize, magician’s art He opens a silver-trayed oyster Pearl-less and barren, just a root; My lady of guises, a trick. Who can fill the elixir hunger On this severed sap, This knotty, gnarled claw Of ancient brittle-cone pine? Lady, lady, lady You are a monolith compost A mound, a heap on the lawn; Lady, lady, lady Stop transforming the foods From inside your secret, fibrous network. See the fungus See it grow See it cover hands, face, body; Lady, you ancient whore, Lady, you are the garden copulating. I dance, dancing a veil unveiling Green leaves embroider the sachets The day’s clear, melic, satiate And linger a longer love’s grace Who can dance with finesse or ease The stranger rhythms unfurling? ~~~ *slipstream, the tangled garden* Leaves dance in the solar wind. Blow time away. Enfold me like a furrow. Encase me in wood, the roots, the branches. Clothe me in the garden. Let tendrils be the leaves, or my fingers. Rise from this womb of roots. Tangled papillon Like the bone trace of antlers. Wall of sun-bleached brick. Wires snaking up, phone, cable. Veins on the outside. Electrical rushing gushing through, emitting chlorophyll. Your breath, like dragon’s fire on the folds of hills. No, that wasn’t it. I melted under the heat of your words. What is that swaying pole of silvered wood? Sun-bleached leaves blowing in the solar wind. That’s what we are: transducers. Isotopes of the living in radioactive time, burning stars. Maps of energy currents. Midwives of time. Time is organic, change through cycles. Season to season; youth to old age. Fresh to withered. Did I mention that I am in love with time, and change, and the revolutions? When you burnt the fields of furrows, pillars of smoke out of the mountain wilderness, I didn’t forgive you. Dragon’s teeth fall out of the sun’s mouth, armed warriors of fire. Vincent, the wheat fields blazing, there was no need. They said your paint poisoned you. Not the flames curling around your mind. I wasn’t looking for inspiration. They threw the grenades. I wasn’t sure why it was. Time eats us – not like Cronus, Goya. Caterpillars mulch leaves so the soul can become a butterfly. It ticks incessantly, the furrows like trenches, where war pools the blood, each heartbeat a drum beat. Come rushing over the mountains, waves of warriors. We’ll explode from the inside otherwise. Make me a fountain of your sacrifice. Don’t follow the code. It doesn’t matter who his lover was. Only the sighs, melting under. I fell across the shadows of the hill. The floor of the sky, a ceiling. Let it go into the long night. Strangely attuned. Why am I a shaman of the dead? The wind blows the leaves, blowing me, angels beating wings. In the furrow, I wait. Slipknots of time pass through. And when I read Ulysses, I knew language could lie. It’s a layer away from. Imposing invisible sheaths over. Even trees in their silence. Who could hear this? Would you understand? Furrows incise the tattooed body. Mind maps. Memory slips like sand through the hour glass. The timer runs out. Clocks stop. Tendrils of leaves darken. The trouble is we don’t die, the demise first. Slip me through the slipstream. For the congruence, there is love. Turn away, hungry ghosts, turn away. Skull beat of time passes, and dragon hill lies sleeping. The word dying lies in the English language like a shadow. The furrow whorls, where the dark hole, slips into. ~~~ …creativity arises from the green earth… we are the green earth rising soul sings its green dream …greening, greening… …sweet…sweet, life… sweet… children… sweet, …sweet

13 thoughts on “Tangled Garden, a videopoem

  1. how gorgeous this is… so much work. it shows! takes me away from my bitter existence. oxoxoxoxo

  2. Awesome. I added it to my "Other Videos" on my digitalpoetryDOTorg channel playlist Wonderful music flows so well with words.. It takes me to beautiful place.
    m. d. friedman

  3. Hi Brenda. Thank you. I think it is time to start making waves with some of the wonderful digital poetry that is out there. I am planning on making up a free online collaborative gallery (of youtube players?). I would love to include some of your work. Please hit me up on facebook at mdfriedman and we can talk about this.
    ~md

  4. Hi Brenda 🙂 "It is at the edge of a petal that love awaits." Tangled Garden is beautiful! Thank you for sharing 🙂

  5. Neat work! I like the experimental nature of this. I've thought about putting some of my poetry to video, so this is inspiring!

  6. That is lovely of you to say, David, especially given the high quality of your videos. Videopoetry is likely the least popular video form on YouTube, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't keep producing them. I suppose poetry books are not high on the seller lists either. Poetry is a special corner for the psyche, and one day may be as popular as it was in previous centuries when people memorized poetry when it was published to recite in their living rooms. Lol. Now Videopoetry in your living room!

  7. Awesome! poetry,music, video and singing …. I only knew the works of Catherine Corelli… Thanks a lot,Brenda and all!

  8. "…death is the new life…" exquisitely unique, u make me proud to be a woman Brenda

  9. Really great thought-invoking video! I think, though poetry and literature may be not popular, only mainstream works, like Shakespeare, Villon and Mark Twain etc., WE first and foremost create because it enriches the soul of our very self, and creation as a process itself fills us with joy and contenment. Do not lose hope, your soul can touch the others if you let your conscious be one with unconscious, and transmitting messages, and you may find like-minded people, like I did. Maybe not like-minded in a sense that they have a passion for poetry, but for only your works and personality.

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