KLOAQ • Nostalgia: A visual Poem

New work! Nostalgia, a visual poem.
Written and spoken by Johnny Bang Reilly. Directed by Judith Veenendaal and shot by Noel Schoolderman.
Sound design, mix, mastering by KLOAQ.COM


Alastair Cook

Filmpoem 34/ The Shipwright’s Love Song

I spent some time with Jo on her narrow boat, Tinker, and recorded Tinker’s sounds, alongside her moving through the water. This is a male voiced poem, so I was persuaded to read it. I shot it last month on Kodak Ektachrome Super8, which is now so rare as to be prohibitively expensive. This will be the last filmpoem for a little while as Luca, Chris and I concentrate on partnering Felix Poetry Festival for next year’s Filmpoem Festival, alongside working with Absent Voices in Greenock and delivering Filmpoem Children’s Workshops in schools throughout the land. Busy times for Filmpoem!

This film was made with the support of the Poetry Society, the Canal & River Trust and Arts Council England.


Dave Bonta • Native Land

Videorenga: linked verses in which each verse is part image, part text.

Footage via the Prelinger Archives at archive.org: old home movies, authors unknown. Sound: Corsica_S (Tim Kahn), recorded in southeastern Oregon, via freesound.org (Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial).

Text, concept, editing etc. by Dave Bonta. Aside from the soundtrack, the videopoem is available for remix and distribution under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 licence. (See the remix by Marie Craven: vimeo.com/117679174 )
Blogged: vianegativa.us/2015/01/native-land/ An excerpt:

Haiku, as we now call it, developed from a tradition of Japanese linked verse (renga), specifically haikai no renga or renku. These were multi-author, collaborative improvisions in which each two adjacent verses could be read as if they were two stanzas of a longer poem. Displaying the Japanese aesthetic preference for asymmetry, verses of 17 mora (sound units akin to syllables) alternate with verses of 14 mora. Native land attempts to do something vaguely similar, stitching together videohaiku of unequal lengths, with lines in intertitles completing a verse (videopoetic unit) begun with the preceding shot. But each line or couplet could also be read as the first part of a verse concluding with the shot that followed it. Realizing that this ambiguous connectivity might easily be lost on a first-time viewer, I decided to make two versions of the sequence, cleverly titled “obverse” and “reverse.”

Native land deviates from Japanese linked verse tradition in two significant ways: it doesn’t have multiple authors, and it’s too thematically unified. The second deviation might be a direct consequence of the first, actually. Had it been made by two or more people, it would be less likely to bear the stamp of a single poet’s didactic concerns. I would argue that it does contain a strong element of multi-authorship, though, inasmuch as I sourced the video footage from six different anonymous home movies in the Prelinger Archives, presumably shot by (at least) six different people.

Kate Jessop • Dog

A young man comes to terms with his sexuality and confronts his bully in his home neighbourhood of Merton (London).
Specially commissioned for the Southbank Festival of Neighbourhood 2013, adapted from the poem by Richard Scott.


‘Make some room for yourself, human animal.’
Julia Hartwig

Sick with longing to be led by men
I stripped in the scrub
rubbed mud through my hair and sharpened my teeth on a rabbit’s bone.

I itched against brambles, ripping birthmarks, veins,
tore the human from myself
as night flickered open and shut like a nursery door

till I was rancid, meat-tongued, ready to love my master
but he laughed, spat half-breed,
then bruised my haunches berry-black with his already blood stained willow.

He fashioned me a muzzle from nettle and briar, kept me
silent, restrained
under the noted Roman oaks of Wimbledon Common . . .

but I bit free, grew wild in the coppice watching his red theatre;
runt after runt
beaten beneath the bone-white blades, the russet canopy.

I wore my blood like warpaint, gorged fat
on wolfsbane,
barked to the bald moon my dithyramb of hate

but he shut his yellowed eye behind weather
as I shimmied up drain pipes
through polite appointed bedrooms to savage my master . . .

I ate his heart, coiled like an adder,
right out of his chest;
left soil-black paw prints on the carpets of Merton.

Richard Scott

Richard kostelanetz

Polyartist: An Interview with Richard Kostelanetz
By Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
February 27, 2012

Richard Kostelanetz is an exceptionally prolific artist and writer.He began publishing essays in the 1960s, including a much-reprinted critique of identity politics in American art, “Militant Minorities,” which originally appeared in theHudson Review in 1965. Since then he’s gone on to create avant-garde art in a variety of genres. He’s written more than 100 books; he also makes prints, produces work for the radio waves and the theater, and works with tapeloops (audio) and pixels (video). He’s completed artist residencies in places as diverse as New York, Stockholm, and Jerusalem.

He’s been called the “king of the avant-garde,” perhaps because two seminal texts in the field bear his name; Kostelanetz authored A Dictionary of the Avant-Gardes, and edited Avant-Garde Tradition in Literature. In recent years, he’s come to perceive Jewishness as a subtle theme woven throughout his oeuvre. In this interview, we spoken about polyartistry, Jewish identity and what makes Sephardic culture unique, the avant-garde, and what relevance he hopes can be found in his work. Though he stops short of drawing a direct connection between Jewishness and the avant-garde, I can’t help seeing a link. The avant-garde pushes the growing edge of culture, skating comfortably past the edge of what’s comfortable or mainstream.

There may not be a causal relationship between Jewishness and an avant-garde sensibility, but Jewish communities have given rise to some terrific avant-garde work. Or maybe Jews just tend to be comfortable outside the mainstream, which is often where the most interesting creative work flourishes and finds its home.

Your written work ranges from lengthy essays to single-sentence stories. When you begin a new piece, do you have a sense for its ideal size or form? How do your works take shape?

Sometimes I begin with an extreme constraint regarding length. Epiphanies, Openings & Closings, and then Complete Stories were all no more than a single sentence long; my micro fictions are no more than three words long; my Miniature Aphorisms are no more than four words long. Recently I’ve produced several kinds of poems with only one word. I like constraints for forcing me to produce radically different work.

Your Seven Jewish Short Fictions consist of strings of numbers artfully arranged. How did that piece come into being? Was it an intentional gesture toward the Jewish hermeneutic tool of gematria?

I’ve long respected the radical principle that truly Jewish art should observe the proscription against graven images. That’s the point implicit in telling a story entirely in numbers while suggesting a wealth of experience such as rise and decline, accumulation and dispersal, or any other way you choose to read those numbers arrayed. One unusual quality of our films about the Great Jewish Cemetery of Berlin is that no talking heads appear, though people are heard on the soundtrack. The visual theme is that the gravestones in a cemetery tell a more important story than any faces. Gematria is too obscure for my taste. In general, I’m opposed to obscurity in art and writing. My work tends to be simple, if different.

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Eduardo Yagüe • DAISY CHAIN


from thebookofhours.org



‘Dark Water’ from the album ‘Fathomless / Ambient’
© GIFT Producciones 2017

Margaritas en el césped. Pétalos blancos ribeteados de rosa.
Brillando al sol. Botones de oro y dientes de león en el campo.
Y margaritas. Tallos duros y un anillo de hojas.
En el césped bajo el manzano.
Adolescentes dando volteretas.
Ojos brillantes y el pelo desordenado. Bikini y pantalones cortos.
Piernas de cachorro y piel rosa. Luego se dejan caer
a la sombra del manzano en flor.
Fabrican joyas. Una pulsera. Un collar.
Una frágil cadena de margaritas de más de un metro.
¿Quién hizo la primera? ¿Una madre y un niño de la Edad de Piedra?
No tenían tiempo, rascando la piel del cerdo con el pedernal.
O en el bosque buscando bayas.
Huellas en el barro.
Las margaritas no son flores del bosque.
Las margaritas crecen en los campos.
Segados por las ovejas, cortados con cuchillas.
Las dos hijas del granjero. Aún no se han casado.
Paran de hacer el queso y de amasar.
Se dejan caer sobre la hierba bajo los manzanos.
Escogen una margarita. Dividen el tallo. Lo enhebran.
Después otra. Un secreto susurrado.
Se secó en seguida. Se estropeó demasiado pronto.
(Traducción E. Yagüe)