Responses to Kathy Couch’s performance
gold trim
piano keys
shiny rewards
I was one of the
many in the sky
during swooping fighting
not listening too scared
to escape my own
things
without wings
God I wish I had the wherewithal to ask her to read
that last one again. It was less accessible & so I
want to hear it again.
She dances when she talks – her hands & body
dance so beautifully. I love that. But when she
reads she is still. It is all already there in the
poem. She doesn’t need to dance because it is there
in the formed words & thoughts, and pictures.
She can paint them w/ just the words so
she doesn’t need to paint them in the
air: The gilt edged dog eared bible of her
own beliefs thumping heavy; the crazy boy
banging on the piano & banging on the stairs in
an exuberance of dismay and birds
ragged beaky bright eyed blackbirds.
I bet it was fun to read them.
–?
Answer: dog-eared truths
truth moved in next door
pinion – restrain from flight rasping
true flies like a banana – bones flies like a scarecrow.
“fruit flies like a banana – bones flies like an arrow” – Grouch Marx?
rasp that black that inks
that tongue pressed upon the stamp
on a straw dipped into the inkwell.
a black raspy tongue is a dog’s ear
its bearing pinioned
between two pine trees that scrape as they
dance in one year & out the other.
–Karen Randall
She steps from behind the lights
where she has been for, uh,
10 years or so.
And, behind her own gestures
of humility and self consciousness,
despite the soft self introduction
Shines so bright she can not see herself
A hidden brilliance that will now
and forever
refuse to hide.
–Tom M.
open
Open
OPEN
–CLS
No, you are not here all alone, I am listening and seeing
you and knowing, too, thereby that I am not alone
either. Raven, crow, Jason slamming a book with gold
edges on the dash of the car you didn’t want. Loss
desire. I heard you.
–?
The luck of neighbors, footsteps overhead
or a crash. The imagined freedom of being
someone else, with a different set of worries,
a different history, different obligations.
Kindness offered, a greeting in the street.
Food exchanged. Nosy questions. Irritations.
Human contact. Close the blinds, here they
come.
–Mary Davies
Answer to the gleam that wakes me that takes me
up in the answer the sense of life passing not by like
outside of us But the intouch sense– when I’m walking & I realize
I’m actually going through the world & Everything is in motion.
Haggard – hags – Never noticed this word before never noticed
the desire for a bible before – Suddenly these ideas are close to me –
Pages like fingers. Worlds spoken like water in the faucet like the
confession of truth from a sister like the words first spoken awoken –
–?
a poem so great
a crisp crack of sharp cheese
a taste says it all
and whose to say what the poem and
whats not the lead in poetry
the poem itself explanation
explication examination
–Melinda Buckwalter
The poetry of her life
I want one of those
books of my beliefs
Oh for the solace of
a spiritual companion
The guy in the duplex
would be a story in
her book, what enlightenment
does the parable offer?
If only I could see the
stories of my life as a
means to contemplation
I’m trying.
–?
Words circling the mystery. How
they leave the shadows intact and the
corners unswept. Praise for the unseen,
the partly covered, the underbelly
and the crevices. Thanks that all is
not transparent, visible, clean.
–Mary Ramsay
The words cascade out like leaping
fish from an August pond. In this
canoe of self I marvel at the simplicity
of such moments. There is truth, in words
when they align with the heart & spirit.
And the road continues – I use my dim
lights to preserve the shadows I so
love & embrace to keep sacred that
focus that is your journey.
HEJIRA – UNMASKED – REMADE– RELIC of NOW
–Kent Alexander
O pinion
to disable from flight
Opine my opinion
Pinion my opinion
Open my open
Opinion my open
O my open opinion
etcetera.
The line of the inside
of the elbow
cracked, my bird has pin feathers,
my Isis has a beak like nails,
she speaks a strong opinion, small as she is.
My nails are bitten (always have been)
so I use fingertips
to preen her pin feathers. I think–
I believe – I wonder – She doesn’t fly…
–?
Piano
Pinion
A fleeting moment becomes poetry through the pen of the poet
Pushing us to carefully turn the onion skin pages of the Bible.
–Lee MacKinnon
Ravings fly through the wall
from the neighbor boy, his eye
glinting the midnight.
Dare I? Fusing feathers
tipped over in favor of eye glasses –
it’s all in the book
or will be, chunk-solid
as a log, gilded on edge
itching to find voice.
–Ann McNeal
So joyous to see the inside of a room whose
door had no handle and was hidden around back.
Inside are many strange and beautiful objects
I see them only reflected in shards of
mirror that hang from the ceiling and cover the walls.
A black feather, the edge of a table, a wide staring
eye,
I am more grateful for these glimpses
and their wild collage than…..
–?
abstraction on abstraction and I’m lost
to the meaning
but can still enjoy the rhythm
the cadence
the sounds of vowels against
consonants
such a world we live in here
where state insecurities yield support
rather than harken a dominance to overtake
that weakness
back off
back down
back away
black bird
the evenings events begin to blend and meld
each layer makes it more difficult to stay focused
on just this one
story story story storytelling
preamble cogent finite concrete comprehensible precursor
to such abstract abstract abstract abstractions
–?
We are pinioned
by our opinions
how ironic that
opinion feathers
pinion us earthbound
–Jesse Lepkoff
So quiet, too quiet, sometimes.
–Coventry Svane
Such proof of how deep hidden wells go –
or rather how ripe hidden fruit grows,
or just how little it can matter to a poet
to be heard, I suppose,
for this is such stuff as I have heard
in those large halls hushed in reverence
for a poet long known and held in hearts
that drink at the well of well-dug poetry.
like Venola bringing out the peaches
in their mason jars from her pantry.
–Christina Svane
I made it!
and how surprised I am
at my shaking voice.
Something so emotional in speaking
whew.
I am always so surprised by how emotional
it is
speaking one’s own words.
–Kathy Couch
Responses to Melinda Buckwalter's & Lailye Weidman’s performance
push button one
what will occur
push button two
and three
don’t run away
I want to see more
oh no not that Harpo routine
walk like Groucho
look down at the floor
push reset
button one
what did you taste
that made you cry out
pretend you’re my mom
push button two
and three
what will it be
pretend you’re a penguin
How much fun
to canter around and
hold the space
in my arms
–Jesse Lepkoff
The balance of words without words
weigh salt against heat with the right dash of lime
can I eat prunes with the salmon?
how much does pasta weigh?
–?
Bodies
so fascinating in their variant shapes
How does she move like that
How does she know how to move in so many different ways
What’s in the poem? What inspired them?
I like un-syncopated syncopation
Heavy steps = danger = anger approaching
take care
Structure
one
two
three
reset
breath
discharge
your turn
one
–?
other opacities
often reveal
something we know
but have covered up
–CLS
Faceoff to reset
a managerie
bugs and birds and babies
horses and humans and
haikus.
It took me so long
to understand the lines, the counting
i have to laugh at myself
And then there you were, outside the bounds.
–Kathy Couch
Why won’t they tell us
there are six? Let’s see –
space, time, story, emotion,
…that spiraling finger
must mean space –
…that desperate rubbing
of her arms must be emotion –
Why do we laugh
when she goes out
of the normal boundaries
of the the space?
It is so much fun to break
the rules. It is
so nice not to even
know what the game
is all about!
– Christina Svane
Blank white canvas, one line
of orange paint. Pause. Two dots.
Left corner, scribble.
Chicken tracks diagonal
Seven thumbtacks
Dotted line off right
Tangle of blue string,
Center.
–Ann McNeal
In relationship
A thin red cord runs from my navel to yours;
from yours to mine
Reminding us that we are connected
always
Always
–Lee MacKinnon
123 End.
It’s the Da Vinci code, I know it is.
It’s the Code of Hammurabi! It’s Hebrew,
#’s and letters. It’s the Common Code of Decency, The Code
of Conduct, The Secret DeCoder Code, The Code D’Azur.
It’s not The Code D’Azur: It’s a language, a lingua
franca, a lingo, a languish; it’s a languor,
a lucky lick, it’s lovely,
it’s 123, you and me, 2, 3, speaking in tongues.
–?
One two reset. Connection.
–?
Reset
Then
Reset
Then
Reset
endless possibility
endlessly possible
Delight
Surprise
Unexpected
Even after 1
After 2
After 3
–Mary Ramsay
If I come out to play will you share w/ me secrets?
Is there room enough to laugh aloud
like children under a universe of blankets?
If I come out to play will the fireflies
also play? Can we sing those songs
w/out words & dance w/the spoon until
morning dawns golden and full?
–Kent Alexander
Haiku 1 2 3 Reset
the form allows…
helping the moment
of the dance to proceed
apace. Be involved now
–SPS
The joy of galloping horses. Everybody
run! Thundering hooves. How they feel
in their bodies running as fast as they
can, bucking and kicking just to feel
alive. The joy of quiet, deep calm
breath, standing still. The joy of
touching, of warm skin on warm skin,
of heart beats.
–Mary Davies
for all my wind up doll, you are my doily
galloping pogo logorhythmic guppy
pile it on. caramels fall from the sky
I eat them bite my tongue in error – shrill
lottery rotates your glottal osprey
porcelain lancelot totality celebrate orate tornado
‘husk,’ I say hoarsely, ‘husk, my little horsey.’
–Karen Randall
The question is always, ‘What do I do next?’
Listen.
Listen with your body.
For what we do next.
To splash or splay or slide or stomp
to wriggle or run or romp.
I listen to you listening to me
And all questions disappear.
–Tom M.
cry out – try and hide
storm in – run away
dilly dally – make haste
pay attention – it’s there
sweet and sour
–?
They are so different, so dissodent, is that
how you spell it? Disodent? Even their clothes
clash but there’s one little bit – a little bit of green
on her inside shirt & a little bit of pink on her sleeves.
That little bit of connection. And they run off and
away, far away, but there’s a little connection – a little
copying, mirroring, a little relating so they’re not all alone.
We are such gesturing creatures. Dogs wag their tails
and raise their hackles, lizards puff their throats, birds
scratch and sway and tilt their beaks. We gesture too.
Little sidelong shrugs & wiggles & bold stamps & thngs.
–?
I felt it for a second there
can’t remember which second
it was but I thought
it’s happening
Brief it was and like I
had to catch the ride so
I couldn’t say which where
what or why
did I imagine that shhh just
keep going
–Melinda Buckwalter
Arriving – so blank – becoming so rich – I don’t like
when she goes far away – I want to feel her close
to me – more wishing I guess – But it felt so
whah words. Finding it all the piece. And
how much there is to work with.
Tense – a tension. A brightness. a balance. a
broadcast intentions directions I could literally
do this all day what would it be like not to call
it, but just notice it?
–Lailye Weidman
Responses to Jesse Lepkoff’s performance
The golden light coming through your
doorway. I was there. I think, “Even if
I wasn’t there, this song would give me
that memory.” That itself is magic.
My back leans against this post,
this theater tonight as intimate as
the kitchen where I couldn’t resist
dipping into the pesto you’d made,
to spread on my toast before anyone
else was up.
The wind that blows us
down the hills like goldenrod
pollen, those winds do come from
those spheres and bring us into
the music, and weave us together
here.
–Christina Svane
The sweetness and sadness of memory.
–Coventry Svane
memory, the bare patches that we
wore in the grassy road at
the end of summer
the waist tall grass
baking in the sun
a road extending from dreams
the memory of strings
–Jesse Lepkoff
His hand upon my back
the sound of the whisk against the drum
Feeling my body pivot counter to his
a 100? counter again
Black pants & a crisp white shirt
as irresistible to me as my
fitted black velvet dress
is to him.
Such sweet childhood memories
Turned to bitterness and what’s been lost
Nostalgia for what won’t be again
Summer’s green fragrance.
Embers from the fire floating up to the night’s stars
So real, what we pretend.
–?
I am sitting on the grass
or maybe I am walking.
I am smelling fresh cut grass
and through an open window
I hear a man playing songs
to himself on the guitar.
When the angle is just right I can
see him sitting on his stool.
I pause to listen.
He sings of green ferns, childhood
radiance, and lines, lines, lines.
–?
Swing and swinging back and forth
from some dark intimate room
a club of tinkling ice and smoke
back when we all could
all but me
swing to sunny days
of childhood captured
the barefeet
the strawberries
swing to the sun itself
humming along with the rest
of the universe
with the rest of us all
suspension. oh yes the surprising suspension
–Kathy Couch
Wading in
robes pooling
fingertips extend
courage
–CLS
That wood-thrush pine-woods deep-green
fern-scented childhood
Dream of unity. I listen
with envious tears. Wishing us all
such a place
of delight and love.
–Ann McNeal
If I could give you a gift
It would be the endless summer days of childhood
Rarer than rubies
Softer than silk
Enough to fill your heart for a lifetimes.
–Lee MacKinnon
I remember first hearing Stan Getz and Gilberto doing their Bossa Nova full open rhythmns and forward facing. Percussive and rollicking
uneven and smooth, open with possibility and driving
forward w/ message. I saw: I listened.
–?
With sung words you take my hand and lead
me to this special place – all moss &
welcome. I travel myself back to Lake George
on a damp summer day, how could
it rain so much – our sleeping bags & pillows
damp as we crawl into them soon
warmed by the heat of our bodies.
The lake is always cold and clear
& we imagine it has no bottom,
endless lake to the center of the earth.
Each summer the same place but new
campers each with their own tents
and camping stoves, fires in the pit to
roast marshmallows, sometimes a song
would float through the air and like
a lover would woo us to sleep.
–Mary Ramsay
I walk, separate from the others– they boisterous– me
silent– watching rain drop majestically form each leaf–
small gifts that house promises, of rebirth. There is
no leaving this place– there is no coming to this
place – only an unfolding as each layer
peeled, reveals another more intimate kiss.
That is adolescence.
Hopeful– I reach out & lay a warm finger
against the dark rock– remembering our
embrace I flush & in that flushing fall
headlong back in love w/ you.
–Kent Alexander
Bossa Nova and childhood
memories of Vermont
There’s a slight disconnect
for me
A wood thrush is so
evocative of these woods
bringing back my own
images of evenings, th
horses nickering, a song
calls out from the tree
line. And now, amongst the
trees, in the shadowed
gloaming of the evening
the magic time.
–SPS
Bossa Nova Breath weave a tale for me
to fly sigh on shifts changes story
take me on my own imaginary – not-so-imaginary
vacation here and now sigh breathe
music and story transport a
Brazilian Vermont just a note away
float away melt away carry away
for as long as the song lasts
and then some…
–Melinda Buckwalter
When are we really alive – we live
in the wild wild heart. thrush is a sound
is a feeling like flushed & blushed a
round like trust a physical touch
a movement. Songs
when we actually hear
the world we are present. When
we actually see– we are in a
beautiful world– takes time to notice–There
is routine we take as kids– especially
when we come to a new place– run around
shift it. Find hollows. I feel a bit wild tonight
although the music sounds like it’s coming out of
a city café. I hear this man speak so lovingly
of a place – those indescribable places – the corner
of a stump-shadow of a tree. Worms under
flat stone wriggling in the mud. He loves this place more
than words. So through the strings of guitar I hear feel sounds
more than words story.
–?
Dappled dancing cha cha shiny shoes
upon his notes. His beat in socks
but tugging with his shiny shoes
he goes, he skips – within
the dappled dark & light green forest
that we both seem to know – he
brings me there. To springtime air.
A quiet guide with raucous hair.
–Tom M.
Summer hayfields, pale green in July. Pie
crust. Baking in a hot kitchen. An old
barn not falling down. Annapolis Valley
1970. Running and running on bumpy
ground. Dog’s face full of porcupine
quills. Roasted marshmallows catching
fire. A million stars. A red dirt road. A
farm house with crooked floors. A water
pump outside. Head-splitting yawns late
at night.
–Mary Davies
each note a blade ofgrass
each note a blade of grass
a bluish cast of greenish grass
a bluish cast of greening grass
a blade of grass so green
green is the green of grass
green breathes the wind through grass
each blade of grass a summer song
each grass a blade a note of song
the wind whispers grass
grass is the grass
so grows the grass in its greenish cast
each blade of grass a note will pass
this blade of grass
this blade of grass
this blade of grass
is ephemerald
–Karen Randall
I hear the
song of another bird
the vireo
the very old
the untold.
–?
Well I’m going to start w/ the last one b/c it is
still in my ears
so lovely & smooth. I thought of Last Tango
in Paris. It must be like the music of that
I want to draw something but I wish I was far away
from everyone b/c I don’t want anyone to see what I
drew since it will be bad. I will make it
small.
The first song so sad. Everyone has those places of course.
A family home. A place that ends up less somehow.
Camp & Three Mile& the Farm all rolled into one
w/ the woodthrush. I bet he heard Veerios too.
And so now, when I’m at the farm, even now, at
“my farm” well I should say “our farm” there
is always that underneath worry for the future.
Is it a part of the human condition or something new?
Did people use to feel secure that things would
stay the same at least in some way? That the
forests & brooks would still be there, even if they
left? Nothing is secure any more.
>–?
Responses to Ellen Kaz's & Ali De Groot's’s performance
Back in
Background
Simple back
Back down Back Out
Holding (back)
Fine spine?
–?
In some ways it’s so much harder watching “silent”
dance like that. Odd. I think of myself as very
visual but w/ the music I am free to visualize
My own stuff while w/ this the visual is there to
Watch.
Oh I love those clothes, so loose & free and
barefeet! I don’t so much know what the back
thing is about, but I realize that there’s this
whole half of ourselves that in some ways
we mostly ignore. Reaching & gesturing to & with
one’s back seems so unfamiliar. But there’s also
something safe about it. Especailly w/ 2 – a
safe way to relate. No eye contact, no big
bosom to bosom embraces, just safe
side by side (like little kids do) and
back to back – like an old long married
couple abed just knowing they’re there
& touching but not face to face, not threatening.
Safe like those soft hewn brown draping
clothes.
–?
earthenware vase two handles outward arm ––––– stretch
containing corn
planting hope
rain dance planting dance seeds watered
brave new world that has mirrors in it –––– see?
mired, ad– more mirth
growing time – harvest here
scythe wild time – stalk errant earthenware vessel
clay by day
mallards by night
Moliere by cornmeal
mile by mirth
feathered wings angled dream
– Karen Randall
So–
What are you doing?
What are you doing now?
I recognize the parts – 2 faces, floor, movements ___ from
pure impulse, and a few words. The outlines of a mysterious structure.
A mystery
for me, not for you. As I feel the satisfaction on
your faces. You know where, what, and why
you are – and enjoy the acts
separately and together.
And through these smiles and looks of absorbtion
I join in some satisfaction.
You have created a mystery
and, when all is done, have not taken it Back.
–Tom M.
Put your hands in the mud, your bare
feet. Cool and smooth. Baby powder
on the floor so your feet don’t stick.
Touching arms, touching shoulders.
Rythmn. Remembering the steps of
the dance, the arms, the whole body,
and the feeling of getting it right,
and it all clicks, and you’re together
and it feels great.
–Mary Davies
Beige & brown – women in round movement –
they turn to each other. It is the performance
of watching. I watch them witness each other.
They hold a space. It is quiet like a pond.
Inside they dart about. There are words –
simple back. I think of Brokeback Mountain –
a world that grows between the two lovers.
The world inside a duet. Simple back is different
But maybe just as passionate. Simple back.
It’s a relationship of listening in a room.
Following desire & reaching fingers towards
The ceiling, towards walls.
–?
Holding is a beginning word at the end. Holding all possibilities for curved gestures wrapping around curved bodies, warm layers of chocolate & mocha. There is wrapping & leaning & bright eyes in all of us, our longings blend with theirs.
I am feet that open to the floor & hair that is swept back & held. I sit, patient, & I let my weight drop & rise, drop & rise.
–Mary Ramsay
You were moving, and I saw you. The magic that you conjured, is it still there out in that space? Sometimes you were still and sometimes moving. I was watching you.
–?
Sisters are 2 trees grown too close in the woods
Stretching thin branches they explore the spaces
beyond
Setting back to the comfort of entwines
limbs
Scratching each other’s back every time the wind blows.
–Lee MacKinnon
These are friends it’s fall they play
outdoors they have their own secret
code Their hair I remember that first
brown like leaves they touch it they
reach why not sure like their
secret code they know that’s what
matters browns like fall leaves
that crackled and crisp into
smaller pieces they wait for
each other’s dance each particular
clearly stated smile now this now that
easy friends they know
each other
–Melinda Buckwalter
She said that she would
offer structure – the
structure they use.
Did she say “Back In”
The Back, the structure
for us all
What’s that behind me
So much I can’t seee or
I don’t see now
Back in? As in backing into
our lives? Perhaps we/I do.
Back off, back away
Perhaps if we befriended
our backs, we wouldn’t
have so many regrets.
–SPS
There was this house I found that I thought was empty – at least I’d seen the people – the family move out. A large red, white & blue van took their possessions away. Later that night I snuck in & w/ flashlight explored their now desolate home. Inside I found ghosts – tender, relaxed, easy-going – whispering spirits, playful at long last as they frolicked on bare hardwood floors – a glimmer here, a shard of laughter there – magic unfolding in moments – not to be forgotten – not to be held – not to be missed.
In the morning I awoke smiling, my feet grimy w/ the memory of the night.
–Kent Alexander
Back, backwards, back hand,
back up, back down, back before
back bone, you hand me down.
Hand out, out there, outwit,
outrageous outfit outback.
In back out back
over under –
there you are at last.
You’re back.
–Ann McNeal
exquisite reality
steady practice
new openings
not being able to have it in all ways simultaneously
isn’t bad at all (in fact, that might be clarity)
–CLS
What back? Back what, I, I, did you? When she?
Who’s back why, when? And back from where?
Oh how my five year old self wanted to know
the secrets, the code, the rules.
And then I got lost in between in their soft
layers of tree colors, the clear rituals, twitches,
and searchings of their movements.
–?
A pocket in the back
What is in that back
A surprise push
I never knew your finger would be there
And now I wonder where words come from
especially when they come so surprising
from a slow moving silent
but creaking
And what again
is in that pocket
can you reach
the dust
the lines
the fingers
and so many surprising hands
grasping and rapping and reaching
watching
–Kathy Couch
Sand sculptures,
Bedouin nomads,
colors of dust & horizons
and a game in the
void of what feels
like infinity between
oases. Colors of camel
and tents flapping
from poles in night
winds, sand silt,
thick coffee, rags,
bags full of a nomad’s
secrets.
–Christina Svane
Back then
Out back
Back up
Back in
Back down
Just back
Big back
Small back
In back
Back in
Back off
Just back then
ripple back
to come back
to you
to me
your back
backs in
Just a flick
a casual move
back to it
a weight
a waft
a wonder
it’s good to
be back
back be nimble
back so quick
back to you
back to me
–Jesse Lepkoff
Two women –
The coming together of old friends.
–Coventry Svane
So odd
seeing my friends on stage
they are still my friends in some moments
and I’m filled with affection for them
in other moments I’m filled with wonder
at seeing this other side of them
this abstraction
and sensuality
I like it when they dance together
and my eyes feel torn when they
dance apart – who to give my gaze?
and at other moments they are not of my relation
but simply two people on stage
so add to see ones so dear
just as people
suddenly outside the context of me, mine,
–?