Bindi Bur Blog

The Best Thing Ever (collage series)

Forgive the quality. This is my first ever video. #AbundantArtShow day 4 (I think. I'm confused)

By the way, the one who was giving me leaves (mentioned herein) was my granddaughter, not my daughter (who is more likely to give me dead dragonflies or skulls or lichen). Sometimes I say a completely wrong word. I have been known to say white when I mean black.


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Abundant Art Show Day 2 (works-in-progress and sharing)

So! I'm doing this challenge: the #abundantartshow. Day two is sharing some of your work-in-progress and sharing some of other people's work too. On social media like Facebook and Instagram. I shared these two pics and a few others and I found some great pics by others also. It is very inspiring actually, looking at other people's work. I found I was drawn to gestural abstract paintings for their luscious paint and marks, but also to paintings that seem allegorical but that have a rather minimal treatment with plain areas of colour. Perhaps that is where I'd like to take some of these collage works eventually. If you're interested in looking at some of the work #abundantartshow • Instagram photos and videos (at the moment I'm on there in top posts!) and on Facebook: #abundantartshow and If you are interested in seeing what I shared, find them on my Facebook page (not profile): https://www.facebook.com/belindabroughtonpoet/ Have a gander; it's fun.



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Rocky Paddock, Williamstown (haibun)

A place of old pine and gum trees. Amongst rocks, the rocks from knee high to taller than two men. I was hungry for it, for time spent in nature. I put my head against the trunks of trees, and to the cold surface of the rocks.

David Whyte said in one of his talks, ‘Nature is so restorative precisely because it doesn’t care about your problems.’ That’s true of course, but it’s more that it is just going about its own business and that the business is slow. There is no tweeting happening that isn’t the twittering of birds; no rushing anywhere, the slow wing beats of crows, languid, their droll sounds; the ancient rocks doing what rocks do, pretty much nothing in our timeframe, but vibrating the long slow song of time, hard and cold and warm and sheltering.

I lay down amongst them in a little nook where I was completely hidden, important, apparently, when you are the only person for miles around.

stone time
a small body listens
to pine song


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Silkie

Emerging from brooding sea
seal-like
she has grown feet and is dancing.

What are feet for if not dancing?
She is like a child who cannot just walk
but must skip or run.

Such lightness of being,
it is not yet time for sorrows.
It is not yet time for cares.

She has not been betrayed
nor yet betrayed herself
and so she twirls

twirls faster and faster
faster and faster
until she flies.



Image by Ervin Janek, the poem was written for the image as part of our ongoing collaboration. More of his extraordinary work can be seen here

A Silkie is a mermaid-like creature who, according to Norse myths, can take off her seal costume to walk/dance on land. Best if she doesn't stay on land too long though, because she will dry out, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I have written about them before and you can read that poem on my old blog, here.

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a notebook for coping

Here are some notebook pages done at a time of extreme grief. I didn't even know I was functioning at the time. A lot of the colour is just about giving my hands something to do. At the time I was reading The Sacred in Contemporary Haiku by Robert Epstein, a book with more than its fair share of glimmering haiku. If you can read my writing you will see references to it and contemplations about what is sacred. Forgive the spelling, it was never my forte, no matter how hard I worked, and these were never meant to be published in this form, but I think it is always hopeful to see the mess of other people's minds and the various ways that they cope. Journalling is useful, even when its messy.

I've transcribed some of the haiku, good and yawn-worthy, for your reading ease, since some of you will have trouble reading a single one. This was the most interesting thing revisiting this notebook that, by default and despite the turmoil, art was still being made.

stars
all at one
with the village lights

though we thought it dead
it opened
the sunflower

the sound
of the fridge humming
nothing else

dawn
colours the mist
his time of day

pine song
a small boy
throws cones


writing longing
into the sand
rising tide

poetry
each autumn leaf
becomes mulch

beach stones
balancing
aeons

alyssum scent
I learn to be
more present

easter Sunday
the wild animation
of children's eyes

autumn colours
round this bend
round that
gasping

autumn
how much of the old man
is in his walking stick

with the post
the sweet honey scent
of alyssum

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