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Aus Einem April

by Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Wieder duftet der Wald.

Es heben die schwebenden Lerchen

mit sich den Himmel empor, der unseren Schultern schwer war;

zwar sah man noch durch die Äste den Tag, wie er leer war,-

aber nach langen, regnenden Nachmittagen

kommen die goldübersonnten

neueren Stunden,

vor denen flüchtend an fernen Häuserfronten

alle die wunden

Fenster furchtsam mit Flügeln schlagen.

 

Dann wird es still. Sogar der Regen geht leiser

über der Steine ruhig dunkelnden Glanz.

Alle Geräusche ducken sich ganz

in die glänzenden Knospen der Reiser.

 

 

 

 

Our Lips Speak the Same April

 

Our lips speak the same April, soaked cheeks and rubber boots to the knee.

With black trenches wrapped with its belt and red noses pinker than the year’s cold.

The men in suits speak faster than their brains and their etiquette is lacking.

Still our lips speak the same April, with a lingering desire for unprescribed hope.

 

A balloon escapes from the crowd of people hiding their prada from nature’s tear.

I am a bystander to its red nostalgia. There is no swell of promise in its rise.

Our lips speak the same April and say “Move along!”

My chest yearns to pull away but my feet stay, head raised.

 

People were murdered is what I think, and this, they are known for.

I was told they were criminals, once a cheater, always.

But our lips speak the same April, and we both are alive.

Their women speak with sharp scolding so children are lost in visions of knifes.

 

My mother spoke like April.

She did not sing, but her words were carefully drawn out like a willow’s wilt.

And her belly was always warm and covered with orange fabric.

Growing up was never drunken nor lost.

 

If our lips speak the same April, what do they say in May?

If our lips speak the same April, why should their history be lost?

Our lips speak the same April, I know they say.

Our lips speak the same April, and the balloon fades away.

 

 

Art Statement: Today our world is able to communicate instantaneously, but even now there are just as many faults in our communication as right after the Tower of Babel fell. With this being said, humans have always strived to overcome communication barriers so that we can interact, and we do this via empathy. This piece is an experimentation with empathy. Can we really exercise our empathy to truly overcome the murky confusion of language barriers, deafness, generation gaps, and gender differences? Or are we doomed by our differences to never communicate purely?

 

Text by: Mary Helen Porter, Dante Alighieri, Louis Aragon, and Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Cast: Derek Brockington (choreographer, dancer), Johari Taitt (dancer), Cosetta Righi (speaker), Haley Jennings (speaker), Maggie Shepherd (speaker), Tyler Johnston (speaker), Emily Folan (speaker), Linnea Fox (speaker), Nolwenn Salaun (speaker)

Music: Jose Salinas (composer), Ximena Calderon (violin), Monse Siles (violin), Essien Duke (viola), Daniel Agusto (cello), Ryan Avila (bass)

 

Special Thanks: Dr. Kedrick Merwin, Nicola Conraths-Lange, Cameron Basden

In The Haze

 

Mornings do not ring with polished bells and broken fasting.

They ring with quiet, hush, shush.

But before the rooster’s crow, before sin’s crime is commit

Eyelids close, so people won’t know my languish.

 

The acid rises in my core but greets the taste of

Cleansed mint and spell of haze.

In the haze I find a padebure, a glissade, an assemble.

In the haze, leathered shoes and lads dress in contrast.

 

One, a face that is freckled with gold accents of an inadvertent mind.

And icy eyes stand as soldiers, attentive and right.

Our anthem runs strong, and even though dawn is wrapped in mauve curtained skirts,

royal capes and purple reign the day’s setting.  

 

In our anthem, he takes me as his girl at home

And lifted at the waist till my height is taller

The sky smells of white linen before I see the cigarette smoke.

I am placed down to cobble stone and he returns to war.

 

I prayed the gold could melt the ice.

There is still no answer.

He chose to march: straight, ahead, onward.

And only a trace of me was left in the air, smoked and clear.

 

 

 

I was humanity

 

I was humanity.

Dead like the Latin I spoke,

My body now sings of the deeds:

 

My skin was butter, sliced and melted

To make something sweet.

My hair was currency, stolen and donated

For the one underneath.

My limbs were stretched to meet the demand

Of tulip kisses fought for to share.

My sheets grew numb with broken whispers

Because the compassion had ran dry.

The rain that sang me to sleep when the light was too bright

Helped the wishes stay barely alive.

While my smile was stretched too far,

And I, humanity, could not remain anymore,

I could keep my eyes

And with them,

tears

Of relief accompanied by grief.

 

 

 

 

 

Another

 

Dance for mothers and bow to sons.

Silked in tied up rose and tulle.

Thoughts pull back into braided ribbons

That crown my listening ear.

 

Arms graced with ocean’s tide

Push my back’s small and assure my hand.

And a foot that knows the maps and paths.

An easy smile where I concentrate.

 

It is not forced, but framed with wildflowers

and coins of approval.

Golden trophy and medal hang high

My sister says, “Like a crucifix.”

 

I am a mother’s savior.

I am a goose that you shall follow.

To where Michelangelo’s fingers touch.

Creator and created

 

From intangible brains wrapped in blood.

And purple, fired nerves.

Birds fly in my core.

Birds are stronger than butterflies.`

 

Strangers beg my pardon,

I care no more.

Sacrifice is not worth forlorn

Another dance

Another story

 

Another hope

For another lifetime:

A chance for Romeo.

A chance for Juliet.

 

 

 

 

Poems

             Original Resoponses                          Foreign Poems

Tutti li miei penser parlan d’Amore

by Dante Alighieri

 

Tutti li miei penser parlan d’Amore;

E hanno in lor sì gran varietate,

Ch’altro mi fa voler sua potestate,

Altro folle ragiona il suo valore,

 

Altro sperando m’apporta dolzore,                 5

Altro pianger mi fa spesse fiate;

E sol s’accordano in cherer pietate,

Tremando di paura che è nel core.

 

Ond’io non so da qual matera prendacf;

E vorrei dire, e non so ch’io mi dica:             10

Così mi trovo in amorosa erranza.

 

E se con tutti voi’ fare accordanza,

Convenemi chiamar la mia nemica,

Madonna la Pietà, che mi difenda.

 

"Heureux celui qui meurt d'aimer"

by Louis Aragon

 

O mon jardin d’eau fraîche et d’ombre

Ma danse d’être mon cœur sombre

Mon ciel des étoiles sans nombre

Ma barque au loin douce à ramer

Heureux celui qui devient sourd

Au chant s’il n’est de son amour

Aveugle au jour d’après son jour

Ses yeux sur toi seule fermés

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

D’aimer si fort ses lèvres closes

Qu’il n’ait besoin de nulle chose

Hormis le souvenir des roses

A jamais de toi parfumées

Celui qui meurt même à douleur

A qui sans toi le monde est leurre

Et n’en retient que tes couleurs

Il lui suffit qu’il t’ait nommée

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Mon enfant dit-il ma chère âme

Le temps de te connaître ô femme

L’éternité n’est qu’une pâme

Au feu dont je suis consumé

Il a dit ô femme et qu’il taise

Le nom qui ressemble à la braise

A la bouche rouge à la fraise

A jamais dans ses dents formée

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Il a dit ô femme et s’achève

Ainsi la vie, ainsi le rêve

Et soit sur la place de grève

Ou dans le lit accoutumé

Jeunes amants vous dont c’est l’âge

Entre la ronde et le voyage

Fou s’épargnant qui se croit sage

Criez à qui vous veut blâmer

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

Heureux celui qui meurt d’aimer

 

Process

The idea of the Tower of Babel has always fascinated me, but even more so after coming to Interlochen Arts Academy. Some of my closest friends speak languages that I may never understand, but as I became closer to them I realized that communication could occur via empathy versus language. One night, actually, I sat down at dinner with two friends who were speaking in their native language, Spanish. As I sat down I thought I knew what they were communicating, but I did not understand what they were

actually saying. In my silly logic I figured that I had forgotten how to speak English entirely and had a slight panic attack. Instead, they were simply communicating in Spanish.

 

One of my favorite movies, “Funny Face,” made in the late 50s with Fred Astaire and Audrey Hepburn, was another main inspiration for my annual project this year because of the major theme of empathy in the film. There's this clip where the main character, Jo, an intellectual from New York City spends an evening speaking with men in a Parisan performance arts theatre meets bar. Jo does not speak French and the men do not speak Enight, yet somehow Jo thinks they are able to surpass their language barrier and communicate. At this moment Jo's almost-lover, Dick, shows up and with a bottle of wine proves that the men's oohs and ahhs are merely a tactic to scam Jo. While this scene may as well have discouraged my intreast in loop holes within language barriers, what happens next between all the characters is truly exciting. They all overcame significant differences to interact and emapthize with one another. (I won't tell you what exactly happen - I'm no spoiler.)

 

So, after having my own personal experience that Jo may or may not have had as well, I decided to investigate the blurry lines of communication through art. I took poems written in Italian, French, and German and attempted to empathize with them. I sat for hours reading the poems I could not pronounce, listening to audio recordings of people reciting them, and without knowing the poem’s translations, I wrote poems that were in conversation with the foreign poems. After responding to all the foreign poems I translated them to see if my crazy idea worked, and it did! If you want to see how each poem specifically became models of emapthy click

 to read my reflections.

 

After working with words and finding great results, I decided to further explore my concept in music, dance, and sheer collaboration. I took my words to Jose Salinas, a fellow student and friend, who has his own experiences with language barriers. Salinas took my words and composed a stringed piece that first respembled the feeling of natural communication. I call it natural communication because even within perfect circumstances humans still miscommunicate frequently, but are still able to overcome these miscommunications. Then, he composed a fugue which truly has an echo effect that clouds a listener's mind with beautiful confusion.

 

With my dancers, Derek Brockington and Johari Taitt, I wanted to not only further what I did with poetry and what Salinas did with music, but also experiment with sign language and body language. We started with just walking - one of the first things we learn as humans while also learning how to make words. We then moved on to variations that symbolize speaking and hearing. As the variations complicated, the two dancers fell out of sync. Good communication (whatever that may mean) truly comes and goes in waves, and we tried to echo that in the movement as well as in the music. 

 

About half way in the process collaboration became frustrating and I started asking myself, "Well, if communication is so damn hard why do we even try?". As many artists may know, collaboration and just making art in general can be a frustrating process. But, when I answered my own question I knew it was worth while. 

 

What was my answer? Well simply, "I am humanity."

 

                           Rosetta

 

Photo by Jim Gurley

Photo by Jim Gurley

Photo by Jim Gurley

Photo by Jim Gurley

© 2015 by Mary Helen Porter. Proudly created with Wix.com

“Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering - because you can't take it in all at once.” -Audrey Hepburn

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