Saturday, December 1, 2012

Northern Kingdoms Poetry Journey - Pix

In November 2012 I took part in the Northern Kingdoms Poetry Journey at Siem Reap, with a group of poets and artists including: five Filipino poets - Marjorie Evasco, Ricky de Ungria, Victor Peneranda, Loven Ramos, Luis Batchoy; Beatriz Alvarez Tardio (Spain), Kosal Kiev (Cambodia),  Ryan Danger Tong (USA), Masahiro Sugano(Japan/USA) Anida Yoeu Ali, (Cambodia) (for more re poets see Perf Pix post). Here are some pics from our readings/workshops in Angkor Wat, Bayon and Ta Prom.



Entering Angkor Wat across the moat.

We pay our respects.


Loven Ramos leads us in via a side collonade to avoid the tourist crush and is first to read.


Frames within frames..there's a lot of that here.


Buddhas, buddhas everywhere.


Along the side path in the cool of the trees.


We leave poems from yesterday's workshop on a workmans van.


Rear view of Angkor Wat.


The wild and wonderful Luis Batchoy reads.


We listen and are moved.


Beatrix Alvarez Tardio performs her lithe and ethereal movements in the Heart Chamber.


Then adds words.


Victor Penaranda reads at the feet of the Buddha.


Ricky de Ungria reads in the library.

Adds jaw harp.



Buddha in a doorway - Kosal Kiev.



My turn .. I sing a smot (sung poem) for my late poet mother Marj.



Marjorie Evasco moves mountains with words at the Centre of the Universe.



Anida Yoeu Ali (Cambodia,US) performs her powerful piece on absence.


Cambodian spoken word artist Kosal Kiev calls on the gods.




Our Angkor Wat guide/artrepreneur extraodinaire, Loven Ramos explains the churning of the oceans.


Ryan Danger Tong performs his first spoken word in two years.


Monks peruse our poem postcards.


On the raod to Bayon.


Ekphrasis workshop with Marjorie Evasco.


Ricky de Ungria gives an example.


Choose an image


Write a poem, suggested by the image, without referring to the actual image.


I chose this one - village boys playing in a small pond outside the temple gate...


rather than go for the Bayon obvious


Still leaving our poetic droppings...


Local kids more interested in collecting our poem postcards than selling us trinkets.


Ta Prom beckons us into its primordial realms.


Doorways heavied by time.


Ricky de Ungria, a verstatile poet, never misses an opportunity to perform.


Empty windows
ancient eyes
who did you see here?




Jan Cornall Nov, 2012






Monday, July 2, 2012

Sometimes writing is like looking for a marshmallow in a desert



Sometimes writing is a long, dry, hard trek to the mountain pass




You have to remember to rest along the way




and carry on even when the path seems to lead nowhere




 There will always be a great view (if you remember to look)



and a waterhole or two (if you know where to find them)



Before long the path starts to look promising




and you have the feeling you are not alone




that someone may be watching over you 

I


Beauty rises up




The swishing grass begins to sing




The muse lands on your shoulder



You know it won't be long



before you find


the marshmallow rocks


you were searching for.


Desert Writers, Ormiston Pound walk, West Macdonnell Ranges, NT, June 2012.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

What is it about those islands?

What is it about those islands off Vancouver, CA? because now all these years later my dear friend and muse, Simone, who I met in '74 Eugene, Oregon...

 (yes the same counter culture capital of the world I spoke of earlier, or will speak of later depending on the order you read this disembodied memoir)...



when I was planting trees with the Hoedads, a legendary collective of feral hippies who replanted logged mountainsides with tiny conifers we carried on our backs in yellow bags, perfectly matching the yellow rain jacket and yellow rain pants we always wore, as you could only plant when it was raining because otherwise the ground was too hard and you couldn't plant when it was snowing either, as the ground was frozen, and so we would be holed up in our black plastic tee pee, way up in the woods, sittin' round the fire, cookin' soup and singin' old country pickin' songs that were popular at the time...

so that same Simone I mentioned at the beginning of this sentence, the very same one who is still my dear friend and muse today, even though she lives on a far away island  just off Vancouver CA, and must ride the very same ferries I rode in '78 with the renegade B ( I don't want to say her real name in case now she is a respectable upstanding member of society and sadly no longer an outlaw), the same ferries that my dear Tibetan friend Tenzing Tsewang rode before he died at his mailbox on Saltspring Island...


that same Simone is the friend who spoke the words (quoted elsewhere in this dismembered memoir) which offered me such great comfort - 'he has ridden on ahead'

she is the one, yes the very same one, who once sent her poetic art missives across the oceans in painted envelopes heavy with stamps, to land in my letter box so I could reply in a similar tone, long before it was fashionable, long before it was co-opted into artsy fartsy blogs like this one, long before people just didn't send letters anymore...

that same girl/woman/artist/poet, now simply and affectionately known as Mon (who paints designs on silk scarves and sends her missives now by ether, not post), lives on one of those islands off Vanvouver CA...


and I am thinking I really must go there one day soon for tea...

Monday, May 7, 2012

Made In Cambodia



I took this photo of a Sallyanne Morgan sculpture (called Made In Cambodia) at an exhibition at Java Cafe, Phnom Penh, earlier in 2012. It's my favorite photo of the year so far.

Irish Sculptor Sallyanne Morgan’s meditative, life-size, sculptures explore the tension between the perceived and the real, combining an observation of current lives and past traditions with an underlying uncertainty for what may yet come.

In the exhibition at there are three different series, all of them with a polished white surface. One features the life-like figures of a woman, a child and a man, each with protective tattoos engraved on them, offering a more literal and private narrative. The second series shows abstracted female torsos with a moving sphere in the middle that suggests a deeper more internal conversation. Finally, the third series of small figures balancing in various positions around a central rod, a metaphoric gesture about adaptation to change.

Sallyanne Morgan studied sculpture at Colaiste Conghaile in Dublin in 1995. She exhibited in Dublin and Cork and worked as a Community Artist around the country. This is her first exhibition in Cambodia.

Ben Thynal’s “My Selfish Family” and Sallyanne Morgan’s “The Illusion of Permanence” opened at Java Gallery and Café (56 Sihanouk Bvd.) on the 10th of January 2012.

This is part of the regular series of exhibitions, launching two at time every 6-7 weeks at Java Café & Gallery. Since 2000, this not-for-profit platform form contemporary visual arts in Cambodia, has hosted over 100 exhibitions and performances, including international collaborations and forums.

Excerpts from a post 6/1/12 by totallyrandomman at:
http://www.expat-advisory.com/articles/southeast-asia/cambodia/reality-clashes-illusion-java-gallery

Monday, October 24, 2011

Wind burial

Last month I had the good fortune to meet Korea's renowned poet Hwang Tong Gyu at a Red Room round table event at the Rocks in Sydney. He was introduced by the wonderful Sydney (Singapore) poet Eileen Chong who also read his poems in English.


Hwang spoke about the process of writing the seventy poems over fourteen years that make up his collection Wind Burial (1995), and how at the end of that time he was no longer afraid of death. 'The poems are linked by the motif of wind burial ... the folk tradition of leaving the corpse out in the open and allowing it to decompose and disappear gradually through exposure to the elements.'



Below are the lines from his poem 'wind burial 27' with images I collected in Newcastle.



 When I leave the world


I'll carry my two hands, two feet and mouth.



 I'll take my dim eyes too, carefully covering them with lids.



But I'd rather leave my ears,
ears keen to catch the sound of the late night rain
as it gives its arm to autumn's shoulder.



Ears that can guess the name of the autumn tree


standing in the rain only by listening
will be left.