Monday, 25 May 2015

Home

collaboration to music ~



HOME
Words on an epicure's tongue
that subtle bitter
lost on an audience handpicked from chorus lines
while I savored buoyant questions to the edge of your mind
knowing there will be no answers
in suburbs graveled white
but on this night
the universe is crawling
on skin soft with expectation
and I have untied silk rhymes
lifting the bluebird’s cleavage
you might as well have caged it
between your colored doubts
are you listening at this moment
or are you asleep spooning spines
bent where you have dotted
all I ask is for hail in December
charting my hiding
sanding raised eyebrows
I will lie in your embrace
and deal with the aftertaste
at first crack of dawn
in absence of verse hygiene
graffiti clinging to your sunken chest
because the universe is crawling
on skin soft with expectation
and I am lost in a blizzard
that resembles your voice
you see there is no one at home
and home is everywhere
in the vast distance
in memories' dead weight
in winter’s renewal act
in promise of my eyes
and in your empty palms
where I pressed my face
fearing my many names
but one I left on rooftops

Wednesday, 20 May 2015

Rumor Has It

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva during the Lebanese Civil War after personally experiencing the devastation of her beloved country. She later settled in California to raise her two sons with her husband. 

Her poetry reflects a little of what she took with her from each city she lived in, the nostalgia for her roots, her Armenian heritage and a deep sense of humanity.

Silva's work is featured in anthologies and international poetry journals. Her first volume of poetry, Uncoil a Night, was released in 2013.  

On April 24, 2015, Silva Zanoyan Merjanian was the guest of honor at 'Celebration of of Survival', which was held at Ohio State University to honor the survival and advancement of the Armenian culture despite the Armenian Genocide.




Eabha Rose Reads Silva's Poetry

Monday, 18 May 2015

'i like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it’s hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. then i can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so - this has always been my dream - so that while everyone else is frozen, i can work busily about them, doing whatever it is that needs to be done, like the elves who make the shoes while children sleep.'  (A Heartbreaking Story of Staggering Genius - D. Eggers)


Sunday, 17 May 2015

Preparing for Edition 5 ~ O Equador das Coisas: Convocação: Edição 5 do jornal O Equador das Coisa...

O Equador das Coisas: Convocação: Edição 5 do jornal O Equador das Coisa...: Edição 4 do Jornal de Literatura e Arte O EQUADOR DAS COISAS. O EQUADOR DAS COISAS, blog de literatura e arte em geral com mais de 7...




Seven Nova : Moment





'if I were to reach across the ocean, I would stand before you, naked, robed in light, a pillar of time, I would not speak, all meaning contained within a single gaze, the infinite reflection of two opposing mirrors.. silence, music, nature and embrace.' 7

Friday, 15 May 2015

What a wonderful festival trailer! We are counting down to Weimar for The Elephant's German debut!

Offizieller backup_festival Trailer 2015 from backup_festival on Vimeo.

Moby - Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad? (Live at The Fonda, L.A.)

Thank you Mary Sue Connolly for the most wonderful gift ! We got to enjoy a short trip to the west coast last summer, and this unforgettable gig was the highlight of our visit - beautiful soulful voice to accompany a unique performer.



un théâtre de mots et de la musique ~ Léo Ferré : La Vie Antérieure (Baudelaire)

Tuesday, 28 April 2015



Our short film will feature in next month's Backup Festival in Germany (27-31 May) and we'll be there to cheer The Elephant on!


Wednesday, 25 March 2015

“The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven… in the ponds broken off from the sky..” Rainer Maria Rilke

pic : Eabha
Fairbrook Garden

 I live through the universal subconscious of the past, present and future of all beings. (Seven Nova)


artist : Berndnaut Smilde




Wednesday, 18 March 2015

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian's second collection of poetry, Rumor is described by Philip Larea as 'a lush, full-bodied zinfandel infused throughout with the terroir of her Armenian heritage. These poems are deeply colored with currant and cherry, rich with tobacco and licorice, meant to be rolled around the tongue, and exhaled with a peppery finish.' (Philip Larea)

Silva Zanoyan Merjanian is a widely published poet who grew up in Beirut, Lebanon. She moved to Geneva during the Lebanese civil war after personally experiencing the devastation of her beloved country. She later settled in California to raise her two sons with her husband. Her poetry reflects a little of what she took with her from each city she lived in. The nostalgia for her roots, her Armenian heritage, her deep sense of humanity reduced and elevated at the same time in life’s events, permeate through her poems. Her work is featured in anthologies and international poetry journals. Actress/Producer Eabha Rose recently read four of her poems; Choices, Rooftop, Doves of Beirut and Suicide which gained international acclaim. Her first volume of poetry, Uncoil a Night, was released in 2013. 

via http://coldriverpress.org/HTML/rumor.htm



'when you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
it's why your silence is a kind of truth.
even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.'
 'A Secret Life' - Stephen Dunne

picture : Brooke Shaden

artist?

Tuesday, 17 March 2015

Happy St Patrick's Day!
Our little poetry film, The Elephant is Contagious, featuring Alicja Ayres, Lute Al Raad, Ruth Lehane, Trea Breazeale, John Joyce, Eamonn Murphy and yours truly and directed by Simon O'Neill has been nominated for Awardeo TV's 'Video of the Week'. Please do give us a vote using the following link...Thank you for the support.





Monday, 16 March 2015

The Opening of Eyes


That day I saw beneath dark clouds,
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before,
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing,
speaking out loud in the clear air.
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
(David Whyte)
pic by Eabha
(River Dawn path)

Monday, 9 March 2015

Spring Fire

Using the 'Transitions' theme, we have been asked collect stories, pictures, paintings, photos and recordings of the last couple of years to compile and share to music as part of the audio visual backdrop to 'Spring in New York'. The race is on to sieve through the art box and create a new piece of work whereby each component becomes part of the tapestry.

A few years ago, I worked on a similar but smaller project for our Healing Arts Trust, and using the concept of threading together significant memories, created a patchwork quilt of paintings on silk, each square representing a particularly meaningful time in the individual's life.

painting in progress : Spring Fire


are we there yet....?

Less than three weeks before returning to the best city in the world. With a plan to blend literary with spiritual, we will be sharing words at The Anonymous Literary Salon in Williamsburg, Brooklyn (the evening to be recorded by Black Watch Films) to a traditional Seder service in the city alongside family and friends. This time of year is always about transitions!

A painting inspired by Passover, Good Friday and Easter. It was painted starting on the first day of Passover and finished on Easter (Adam O Day)



Wednesday, 4 February 2015

The Elephant is Contagious

Our short film, The Elephant is Contagious is a journey through subtle side-glances, restrained anger and deviousness to a discreetly executed act of revenge. Enjoy!

The Elephant is Contagious





Monday, 26 January 2015

being Cut Up!

Images from Cup Up! Ireland launch at Ranelagh Arts, Dublin 


Lute al Raad, Eabha Rose and Alicja Ayres
photo : Ranelagh Arts

setting up - Eabha Rose and Malcom Kelly
photo : Robbie Ambrose

Michael Mc Aloran, Eabha Rose and Joe Ambrose with one of attendees
 Joe's t-shirt the splendid work of Billy Chainsaw - Billy Houlston
Photo : Robbie Ambrose 
Joe Ambrose alongside member of Arts team and Eabha Rose
photo : Lute al Raad

Eabha Rose
photo : Lute al Raad


Eabha Rose, Joe Ambrose and Daniel Figgis chatting with some of the attendees
photo : Robbie Ambrose
photo : Robbie Ambrose

Eabha Rose
photo : Robbie Ambrose




Lute al Raad, Eabha Rose and Alicja Ayres
photo : Ranelagh Arts


                                      Cut Up! features in Bizarre magazine

Thursday, 22 January 2015

va vers toi-même

Reminiscing! What memories this stirs...I havent finished the video - but this is my shared Camino journey from St Jean-Pied-de-Port through Basque and the Maseta captured as much as I can through music and images. We made it all the way to Muxia in Galicia, and life has take on new dimensions since returning home. I am so thankful to The Universe for the wonderful people I met on The Way (forever friends) and for the little signs that lit the path towards home. I lost my camera on the last leg of the journey and lost pictures of the journey into Santiago de Compostela but the final stretch is vivid in my mind and heart. I especially remember the little words frequently written on stone by a French peregrino : va vers toi-même (go towards yourself).


Monday, 12 January 2015

Happy New Year


Updating my wix website for 2015 & making it more mobile friendly. Happy New Year!



from The Elephant is Contagious


The Elephant is Contagious


screen grabs from The Elephant is Contagious alongside Alicja Ayres; directed by Simon O'Neil












The Elephant is Contagious Screenings & Awards : Cut Up! Ireland, Ó Bhéal International Poetry Film Competition Shortlist; Film Festival, Ireland Competition Shortlist; Smurfit Theatre, Firkin Crane, Athlone; The Generator, Smithfield, Dublin; The Cinematheque’s Visible Verse 2014 Festival, Vancouver Canada; Darwinner, Sir Charlie Darwin's, London; CYCLOP International Poetry Festival, Kiev, Ukraine, Awardeo TV, Video Of The Week nominee, The Backup Festival, Weimar, Germany


Tuesday, 26 August 2014

'we all arrive by different streets, by unequal languages, at silence.' (Neruda)


'there isn’t anything in this world but mad love. not in this world. no tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. and of course, no reasonable love. also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. but, who wants easier? we dream of love, we moon about it, thinking of romeo and juliet, or tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the irish sea, all doom and splendour. today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun. i called out to him, and he turned. his face was like an empty pot. i remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago. i remember his daughter-in-law. when she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets. he picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea. oh, how he loved his wife. oh, how he loved young barbara. i stood in front of him, not expecting any answer yet not wanting to pass without some greeting. but his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming. something touched, me lightly, like a knife-blade. i felt i was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. 

(mary oliver ~'march, in white pine')

Tuesday, 12 August 2014

only

because of how you express yourself and how I understand your persona, there is a lingering effect, as if your presence were tangible in essence, aesthetic emotional affinity. It is and must remain abstract and yet I also am glad to know that such an experience is indeed about someone, not only a ghost, cause of imagination. And I wish you well in all your days, a wondrous unfolding of magic and light, caress of the earth in gentle shadows of lush hidden embrace. There is nowhere to return from, the past must race ahead and disappear. There is nowhere to arrive, the future is breath in all moments now made real. Eternity, our shared state of emotional freedom, the animal is naked: our worlds begin and end in love. (Seven Nova)



photo - Edyta Pekala

Monday, 9 June 2014

with Love

From a discussion with a friend about the wonderful metaphors that form the template of many spiritual philosophies focused on the concept of Awakening. Many will grasp it conceptually; some will experience it for a time and fall back to sleep; others will embrace it and continue the journey; some will get angry and ridicule it.

Western metaphor :

Birth ~ Bethlehem, Awakening
Baptism ~ Desert, First Dark Night
Transfiguration ~ Illumination
Crucifixion ~ Second Dark Night, Abyss
Resurrection ~ Mystical Union, Realisation

You won’t feel ready for it when it comes. No one does.
Castor doesn’t train heroes anymore. No, your call will come when you are folding the laundry, punching the time clock, sitting at your desk with stacks of paper in neat and organized piles. One day, when you are writing checks, the wind will blow through you, and you will wonder where that chill came from as you notice your windows are so safely shut, and the room is a comfortable seventy-five degrees. This is your warning.

For those who are prone to leaping off bridges just to feel the thrill of falling, your call may not feel like a call at all.
You might meet a tall dark stranger who extends to you a harmless invitation and find yourself suddenly hurdling through space- gleefully- while cosmic dragons hurl fire that whizzes past your ear, singeing your hair and giant spiders weave nets all around. Be careful out there.
Your call to adventure may come as a shriek in the stillness of the night while you lie awake ruminating about the rising waters, the secrets you keep, the way your lover turns away from you after sex. Or it might come as haunting and melodious pipe music you can only almost hear, being played by a nymph in the wild places of your dreamscape.

Your call might be a regal horn blown by the breath of a great angel through a million tree branches scraping against your window. Finally, if you’re truly destined for greatness, your call may not arrive until the skies catch fire, and set ablaze all the small comforts you’ve so meticulously collected, turning the house you were raised in to ash.

No matter how your call comes, it is the trumpet of your destiny. You will say that you have more important things to do: you are raising children, punching the clock, planning a vacation to escape from an oppressive life.

You will protest to the messenger. You will say he has confused you with someone else, that you’ve not a heroic bone in your whole body, that your Honda, your atrium, your sensible beige walls are who you really are- what you see is what you get- and you simply cannot accept his invitation right now. You’re too young. You’re too old. You’re not financially ready. You’re not emotionally ready. You’re blind. You’re deaf.
“But the makers of legend have seldom rested content to regard the world’s great heroes as mere human beings who broke past the horizons that limited their fellows and returned such boons as any man with equal faith and courage might have found…. The hero comes back from this mysterious adventure with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.” ~Joseph Campbell
It’s already too late. When you are called, no refusal, no denial, no sputtering rejection can stop it from beginning, so don’t go back to sleep.

1. The calling itself is your qualification.
You don’t feel qualified? Good. Neither does anyone else. In the ass-backward and meaningless world created by our collective insanity, you must qualify. You must qualify to be permitted to work, to be housed, to have status as a human being. If you are bat-shit crazy and poor, you are diagnosed with a thought-crime from the big book of The Healthy State’s Conformity Manual (fake book title- you know the one).

If you’re crazy- and you find a way to monetize it- you’re eccentric and brilliant, a sharp and creative mind (relative to the growth and return on your bank account, that is).
How strange, to give so much power away in a world that measures the value of a human life with numbers in a vast virtual databank. What is your life worth? Do the numbers add up?
Are you qualified to receive the right to live with dignity and purpose? Do you qualify for healthcare? A safe home in which to raise your child? Food? This is a system that we collectively- and literally- just made up. It is insane. It is meaningless. Only our agreement allows it to exist at all.
Underneath all your concessions, your hold-outs, your hold-ins, your thrashing, your frozenness lies something original, unique and profoundly real, truly alive, bursting with creative ecstasy.
If you have done everything right-or even if you haven’t- and you don’t know why it feels hollow, how you’ve become so tame, so stiff and gray and boring, like the color has been squeezed out of you,  then your call has come right on time. Pick up. The phone. Fate knows you’re home. Don’t make her blow a tornado through your living room to get your attention.

2. Your life begins taking on magical or supernatural qualities.
Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell others.” ~Mary Oliver
Once you have been called it is not so far-fetched that you would begin to experience unusual phenomena. After all, you do not yet know what you are called to- what you will become could not be explained to you because it is not in your frame of reference.
Can you imagine a color that does not exist?
Even as you take your very first step, you are blind. It seems unfair to be asked to walk a path that you cannot see, but in exchange for your lack of sight, you shall be awarded vision. You will see with the eyes in your hands as you feel your way forward. You will peer into worlds that lay upon the dust under your physical feet; you will see the greater focus of existence and you will learn to let go your attachment to appearances.
With any luck at all, it will start small: a glimmer out of the corner of your eye, a strange encounter with an old woman who says the oddest thing you’d ever heard, the sense that you are not alone in an empty room. You will wish to brush these off as tricks of your clever mind, but failure to heed the secret knowledge of your gut will only result in more powerful demonstrations designed to dash the illusions under which you live to pieces.
If you think the chill rolling down your spine in the silence is eerie, just dare to ignore it.
If you insist on physical demonstration it will come, but great risks you take with this demand, whose form you cannot control. Do you really think you are ready to kneel before an apparition as solid in your perception as your own flesh? Do you really believe that you could withstand the light of your own being without being shattered to your humanity? Would you become a prophet or an empty shell housed in the nearest nuthouse?
You cannot answer these questions. You are too fragmented as yet to know what you are. We all are. If you do not think you are shattered, then you do not yet know even the most basic thing about your human condition. When finally you see yourself break, which may not become evident to you without great loss, only then have you begun to see what has happened to you in your sleep. This is the first hint to the true purpose of your journey.

3. You begin to lose your grip.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present.” ~Anais Nin
So tightly clenched have been your fists around what is left of your old life- of the pre-called self- that your fingertips have turned white, the joints in your knuckles ache, the ragged edges of your nails draw blood in half-moon shapes from the meaty bases of your palms.
Your old reality is now called into question. What was solid and true begins to warp and fade. The bedrock on which you built yourself is turning to dust beneath your feet, the walls on which you have hung photos of your dearest memories turn to ash before your eyes.
At every threshold you lose something: your shoe, your watch, your favorite negligée. Yesterday you needed these things; today the Universe teaches you that you don’t. You’re in a perpetual state of grief and wonder. In every mirror you will see yet another of your many faces.  The days of being two-faced have ended as you discover, slowly, that you are everything that has ever been.

What a great and terrible responsibility that falls upon the awakening human. Ever more weary as you tread, you cannot return for you have lost your way in the vastness of yourself now.
Time, you find, moves in every direction. The alarm clock still rings, you still drink coffee, your body still sits in traffic, but your spirit is stretched across eternity. Everything looks the same, and yet, not at all.
Your skin becomes increasingly uncomfortable as you try to contain all that you are. You find you cannot stuff anymore in, and so now you must begin to sort through the storage of your eternal self and cast out what no longer seems valuable, what no longer seems true, what no longer seems real.
You no longer look with your eyes, but with your inner sight. You see all the world, all its devious systems, the way it lulls, the way it oppresses, the way it is designed against all truth. You have fallen for so many deceits. You can no longer trust anything you once knew.  You begin to realize that this quest will claim your life, and one blink later…

4. The Abyss has taken hold.
It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life. Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.” ~Joseph Campbell
Lost and empty, there is no longer a road, only darkness all around. It breathes, it hisses and all lights go out. You no longer exist, and yet you are in pain. All but catatonic, you lie there in your sweat, your tears, in the blood spilling from your broken and hopeless heart.
You believe in nothing, in no one. You are sure your end is upon you; you wish for it to come swiftly and terribly.  You can do nothing but wait for your heart to stop beating, and out of this long dark night, a distant, golden glimmer, and harp music calls you through the boundaries of worlds.

Finally, you’ve broken. Finally, all your defenses have been defeated. Finally, you have no choice but to see that all you have clung to is meaningless, that it could not save you. Finally, you have surrendered to the void.
“When there’s no sign of hope in the desert, so much hope still lives inside despair. Heart, don’t kill that hope…” ~Rumi
You die.
You dream.
So many sights from a life now over: streamers and cupcakes, past due notices and pink slips, campfires and moonlight. Here, in the nothing you face your fears, no longer formless they rise as phantoms in the dark.
War weary, fightless, you watch them hang you and light you on fire, drag you through the dust by a rope around your neck on horseback, throw you from bridges, chop your head off on dusty cobblestone streets. You hear yourself screaming, through the long hallways of time. You hear yourself wailing from a cavern on the ocean floor. Your spirit has carried this pain since the first time you took form. You are sharing the womb with thousands of selves, frozen in the traumas of ages in human time.
You begin to realize what you have done. You begin to realize that your cleverness is not so clever after all. You start to see that your mis-creations never die, not even when you do. You see that you have forgotten, but your creations never did; they cannot. They are bound to you and you are bound by the laws you made for them.
You are ready now, to accept your undoing. You are ready to become a stem cell again. Formless. Helpless. You might become anything: a liver, a heart, a uterine lining. A star, a queen, a priestess. You’ve lost your will. You await instruction from the vast dark womb of the Mother.

5. You are ready to accept your transformation.
The deep parts of my life pour onward, as if the river shores were opening out. I feel closer to what language can’t reach. With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven… in the ponds broken off from the sky. . .” ~ Rainer Maria Rilke
The cacophony of all worlds falls silent as you cross the bridge, the only direction you can now go. Behind you there is no life. It’s funny how you glide now, swimming through the etheric soup, no longer hindered by your clumsy body, loaded down with heavy, dented armor, or bags of worthless trinkets from a world that no longer exists for you.
It is dark in the womb, but it is peaceful. You have made it to the temple. You lost everything along the way, even your identity, which no longer hinges on what you do for money, what you do for specific individuals, what kind of car you drive.
You are utterly empty and without will,  you have come to realize that you cannot know what to be next and have finally let yourself go into the arms of the Great Mother, whose embrace is a soft golden cocoon where your emaciated self can finish safely disintegrating.

The caterpillar cannot imagine what it is to be a butterfly. The sperm cannot imagine what it is to be a human. And ever so slowly, you are being rebuilt. You are being made new.
You are going to be birthed one day, into a world you cannot yet fathom, into a life you did not know was possible. Where you have come from will seem like a dream, and your slate will be wiped clean by the hand of She who created you.
Though the home you now live in seems to get increasingly cramped and tight as you grow, you also have been given new ears and eyes, new limbs, a fresh and open heart, innocence. You can sense the excitement as you float, you can feel that a new dawn is now close.
You can hear their voices now, the voices of those who you are coming to save, to heal, to love into newness. You can hear them speak of you as the royalty whose arrival they eagerly await.
It takes some effort- the labor- it is uncomfortable and your new muscles, new lungs, new eyes work hard to adjust you as you squeeze through the same bridge you crossed as a tiny speck of pure potential all those long months ago, so you can emerge atoned, and blazing with soul.
“Everything changes when you start to emit your own frequency rather than absorbing the frequencies around you, when you start imprinting your intent on the universe rather than receiving an imprint from existence.” ~Barbara Marciniak
You are no longer a slave, but a true and compassionate servant. You have no needs, only desires that burst into being by the power of the divine will you now are.
Your body, your brain, your singing heart exist only to embody God, as you, in a world that once seemed so scary, so dark, so dangerous. The dark armies are now like ant colonies.
They climb over your your big toe on their way to feed on the crumbs left behind by picnicking families, but they cannot see you, let alone harm you. Now, the dark cities where you were chased by monsters are the playground of creativity, mercy, joy, peace and happiness. Miracles are ordinary occurrences, and you give them away freely to everyone you meet. Your breath raises crystal cities, and your heart beat is the rhythm of the music that holds the universe together.

You are home again.
The phone rings.
Pick it up.