Billy Collins, former US Poet Laureate and one of America's best-selling poets, reads his poem "The Dead" with animation by Juan Delcan of Spontaneous. Noted for their intelligent humor, accessibility and observations on daily life, Collins' popular poems come alive further in a series of animated poems produced by JWT New York. - - - - - - - The Poem - The dead are always looking down on us, they say, while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich, they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats, of heaven as they row themselves slowly through eternity. They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth, And when we lie down in a field or on a couch, Drugged perhaps by the hum of a warm afternoon, They think we are looking back at them, which makes them lift their oars and fall silent and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

Poema de: Araceli Collazo
Dirección y Realización: Saul Escobedo
Voz, Audio y Mezcla de Sonido: Araceli Collazo
Actuaciones de:
Mujer: Araceli Collazo
Personaje de "Los Recuerdos": Santos Robledo de Mina, Nuevo León.

Araceli Collazo's Official Web Page
http://palomanegraworld.com

Este poema fue publicado originalmente en: Explicación de Textos Literarios, Año 2000, Volumen 29, Número 1. Revista Literaria, Universidad del Estado de California. Dir. de La Revista Dr. Fausto Avendaño.

Spanish (English Version follows)

Originalmente publicamos el storyboard del poema y ahora les presentamos el video. Este es un proyecto largamente acariciado. El video se grabó en La Haciendo del Muerto en Mina, Nuevo León y el Cementerio de el pequeño pero mágico Pueblo de Icamole, en García, Nuevo León. Las imágenes que aquí presentamos como "Los Recuerdos" se filmaron el Domingo anterior a la filmación, durante una ceremonia en honor a San Antonio por los residentes del Rancho Los Carricitos, en Mina, Nuevo León. El hombre detrás del colorido traje es un danzante real; nos permitió hacerle estas tomas exclusivamente para nuestro proyecto cuando concluyó su ceremonia. Todas las locaciones existen tal y como se presentan, incluyendo las imágenes de San Antonio (la estatua estaba ahí para la ceremonia) y la decoración en el interior de la Iglesia. Tuvimos mucha suerte al encontrarnos con ellos en nuestro recorrido de reconocimiento de las locaciones. Ellos fueron muy accesibles y amables con nosotros. Les estaré eternamente agradecida. A cambio les llevamos una copia de nuestro video y otro con las imágenes de su ceremonia. Espero que lo disfruten. Sus comentarios son bienvenidos.

English:

We originally published the storyboard for this poem and now we present the video. This is a long-awaited project. The video was shot at La Hacienda del Muerto in Mina, Nuevo León and the Cemetery of Icamole, a very small yet magic town near García, Nuevo León. The images we present here as "Los Recuerdos" (Memories) were shot the Sunday prior to the shooting of the video during a real ceremony in honor of San Antonio (St. Anthony) by the residents of Rancho Los Carricitos in Mina, Nuevo León. The man behind the colorful suit is a real dancer; he allowed us to shoot those images exclusively for our video after their ceremony was over. All locations exist exactly as we present them, including the images of San Antonio (its statute was there for their ceremony) and the beautiful decorations inside the church. We were so fortunate to have found them there that Sunday in our walk-through. They were very accessible and kind to us. We will be forever thankful. In exchange we brought them a copy of our video as well as the images of their ceremony. I hope that you will enjoy the results. Your comments are welcome.

Poem:

Cuelgo a mi cristo

Me despiertan las campanas
de mi religión abandonada.
Me distraen los recuerdos
bailando bajo las sábanas.
Tengo a mi Cristo colgado
del tendedero de mi alma
y mi alma remojando
en un saco bajo la cama.

Tropiezo con las huellas de mi sombra.
Me fatiga el dolor que no calla.
El contar de los minutos que no acaba.
Ver llegar la mañana y saber que la noche
que la noche
que la noche
será larga.

Te sorpenden mis silencios, mis audacias,
nuestro amor que se hizo garras.
Te quieres ir y no te vas,
pues ¿qué te falta?
Te quedas porque sabes bien
que aún me amas.

A veces me cansa el dolor,
a veces acepto el frío.
A veces mi lamento
no lo escuchan mis oídos.

El frío se quita bajo unas sábanas
un cuerpo tibio
El dolor ni con los recuerdos
ni con el olvido

Mientras decides si te vas ó si te quedas,
cuelgo a mi Cristo de los tendederos de mi alma
y cuento las horas
los días
los silencios
las palabras
y envejece este amor en un saco bajo mi cama.

Noted for their intelligent humor, accessibility and observations on daily life, Collins' popular poems come alive further in a series of animated poems produced by JWT-NY.

Transcript

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

Elegance.
Your Eminence deserves a one word sentence.
Your essence kills me at your entrance.
Radiance.
Not a dime, you're like eighty cents.
Envious girls look like aliens.
Acceptance.
Your love doesn't pause for vengeance.
Your toleration for my flaws is relentless.
Soul.
Without your love my heart's black as coal.
So with you...I feel whole.
Elimination.
How did different policies make our love crash and face incineration?
Now I must erase all your qualities from my imagination.

Flag and Future

They declared black the colour of my people,
the Luo and the Taita and every shade within,
including they who chose here over past homes.
Green signified the land and its fertility,
of Marsabit and Muranga and Malindi,
every altitude and region between.

Red was the blood spilled till ’63
in wars our own and not, every encounter
known and shrouded in silence a declaration
of our right to direct our destiny.
White was the way they hoped we would live
for posterity: in peace, love and unity.

But in the city blood spews as rocks fly
to kill kinship, and police in their turn
set young limbs in their sights
every temple hot and righteous
vengeful fists on freedoms fields

and blood spews in the Rift Valley
an artery bearing a jagged rift
cut a century deep, so we fight ‘n die today
to honor the memory
though there are healing-salts at Magadi.

Mourning, and being mourned,
I see the flag and hope aloud now
White stripes – light this night
bring peace, love, bind us whole.

let this rich blood build and heal us,
warm and show us how green
Mt Kenya Turkana Kibera, how precious still
Ancient Ones see them be.

About This Video
View poetry in an entirely new and innovative w... (more) Added: February 13, 2007 View poetry in an entirely new and innovative way. Billy Collins, former US Poet Laureate and one of America's best-selling poets, reads his poem "Forgetfulness" with animation by Julian Grey of Headgear. Noted for their intelligent humor, accessibility and observations on daily life, Collins' popular poems come alive further in a series of animated poems produced by JWT-NY.

The Poem
The name of the author is the first to go followed obediently by the title, the plot, the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of, as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain, to a little fishing village where there are no phones. Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag, and even now as you memorize the order of the planets, something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps, the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay. Whatever it is you are struggling to remember, it is not poised on the tip of your tongue, not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen. It has floated away down a dark mythological river whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall, well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. No wonder you rise in the middle of the night to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war. No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

One of 25 video poems in Four Seasons Productions newly released Moving Poetry Series - Three innovative new films - RANT * RAVE * RIFF. Good Morning America was written in 1916 by Carl Sandburg and is recited Dr. Allen Dwight Callahan. The more things change, the more they stay the same. To learn more about this provocative new series, and for the full transcripts of our films poems, visit our website at www.4SeasonsProductions.com.

The Road Not Taken for Chorus with Piano, Opus 77 (Written in 2001) Poem by Robert Frost. This is a slideshow I've done to go with a performance of one of my compositions. This choral work is performed by the San Jose Symphonic Choir, and directed by Leroy Kromm.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-- Robert Frost

That tree rose upward in a simple way towards the cloudless sky, and everything around it seemed to be listening the gentle rustling of the air that swayed its thick leaves of different greens. Its calm solitude mitigated the prevailing heat that became subdued int its surroundings, and its cool and protective shade seemed to want to become bigger to give its shelter to a larger number of birds. The passing of time have stopped in that corner, and the stillness that only interrupted a few thimid flapping wings made it look like a print dyed jade green. The silence turned into a dense and pleasant sound, and everything that lived there let themselves be looked at without rebelling, sweet surrender of one who has no fear because pain still has not yet been felt. I did not dare come any closer because I was afraid of shattering the peace fulness, and it was enough to feel all the fragrance that came from the heat and shade parfume that nobody could ever copy.

The rain fell slowly almost as it not wanting to, gently calming the thirst that the heat left behind. She entered through the open window sifting with her timidness the penumbra now already cool. The houses and things were still, letting themselves be touched by her presence and the drowsy time, looked at her like a child. The blue and gray blended together, water and air that played in the sky now hidden in kept silence, and the rain fell slowly stretching out her arm to gently touch the branches and vineyards. No one spoke, only she sang and more than sing she hummed a slow tune that moved in harmony with the feeling. What fragrance her face gave off, shiny and pale, fresh like a young rose that parfumes the sitting room in a copper vase. The forgotten sun finally peeked its light, though dim, through the soft layer of wet cotton, and the rain upon seeing it, gathered her hair and let herself kiss the nape, warm and alive, like an expectant woman.

If the sun upon kissing the sea paints it the color of fire and the burning of its desire blends the red with the black and the blue with the dreams, why don´t you kiss me, my love?. If the sea upon kissing the shore takes it into a long hug and the might of its love covers the sand and stone with a neverending orgasm, why don´t you kiss me, my love? If the air upon kissing the harvest and rocking it on its knees roufles its tassels and between whispers and kisses cradles it like a little girl, why don´t you kiss me, my love? If the sleepiness upon kissing my pillow caressing my soul becomes master in a moment and carries me in a flight protecting me in its wings, why don´t you kiss me, my love? It the moon upon kissing the night gives it thousands of scents enrapturing its senses and drinking from its lips like leaves of an iris, why don´t you kiss me, my love?

When you ask me if you will be happy, my son, I say yes because that is how I want you to be, but I look at the world and I remain awake although I hide my fear. Life is hard I warn you, but if you have yourself you will have the biggest thing, the spirit of living for the sake of living, the friend that is always there, the adventure of discovering the meaning of your destiny. I know the scent of the flower of love will reach you, and that you will also wear the colors of pain, and that you may feel broken into a thousand pieces when you fall short of some dream, more so upon becoming calm again you will be able to rebuild, hard eternal work, miracle that will be your strength, calmness that will throw off the sadness from your soul, and always, being your own support, you will be able to believe in others because you will have always believed in yourself, you will be able to share the surprises of being alive and dress loneliness with the light of courage, and your soul will become inmortal upon planting in your path the divine seed of being, my son.

Tupac Poem by Sonia Sanchez - When Ure Heart Turns Cold
(Original from album)