What connections are there between art, song, poetry, dance and all of us?
Pascale Petit has generously agreed to let me put her video about her art on my post. I was moved by what she says in it and I found many thought-provoking links and connections in it to my own feelings and experiences of art, poetry and the survival of our beloved world as we wander down paths that are not entirely self-chosen. I am curious too, about you, my readers, and what your opinions are? Please do comment – I welcome that.
Our animal selves, our environment and Pascale Petit’s poetry
I encountered Pascale on the internet and love her Fauverie poems. Pascale writes poetry about what she knows, the places she has been and what she has experienced. For me, there is something lovely and hopeful in the trajectory of a life that is lived through art, poetry and the natural world. Listen to Pascale read My Wolverine – its wonderful!
Walking ourselves into existence by singing
I am reminded of Bruce Chatwin’s Songlines and his theory that humans were nomads who walked out from Africa and over the whole world singing themselves into existence as they created knowledge and culture. Singing and poetry came from the beating of our hearts and the rhythm of our footsteps. All humans were poets, minstrels and troubadors telling unending stories. And in our hearts we are all poets and artists today even if all we do is take pleasure in the performances and festivals of others.
People are poets by nature and evolution
Its sad that poetry is sometimes seen as only written by and for an educated elite. In our hearts we know that poetry belongs to all of us. I believe that Bob Dylan deserved the Nobel Prize for his song lyrics. I think that John Lennon and Leonard Cohen were artists who made music and wrote poetry. Poetry has so many different forms, shapes and appearances. The cadences of spoken language are music. We know that we can’t help but write poetry, even if only in secret –
I don’t understand why there were no women among those poets, though. So here is one of mine instead:-
The words spill out of me like beads
falling from a broken necklace.
They won’t sit down by the margin
or rest tidily on the page.
Perhaps they are becoming poetry?