Olympian Apollo TwentyTwelve for Twenty8TwelveAugust 16 2012, 12:11
A Poetic Review
by Greta Bellamacina
According to Greek mythology there were twelve Olympian Gods who ruled the world. Standing on the pivot of this hour, two thousand and twelve it seems, that the world has turned a full heart turning circle. Placed in the centre of the Olympic stadium to watch the athletics of Gods and Goddesses of torch bearing war, all travelled elements form the Olympian twelve reasoning the heroic wilderness.
For those who dream for gold
It hung in a torch beyond
Fantasy. Hanging. Locking
And recovering in the finishing line.
It travelled in the interlocking
Glints to rays of instant
Time. Pressed between
Bronzed bodies in the moving,
Anchoring in repetition
Of those precise, movements.
Forming in the exchange. Cupped.
Faster in the sporting twist of
Quarters. Opening wild visions,
Of those who leaped. Stronger in shape,
Created in the folding heights
Of a game. Symbols ordered.
Adapting to shifting strengths.
In a taken dawn. Packed
In collections of splendour. To
Awaking bones, full, alive in moment.
Followed by a showcase of senses,
Foreign, a circle is moulded.
Not finishing but starting.
In silver sums of two. A grid
Immediately rooted. In a remote need
Of running runs of distant pace,
Fanning solid peaks up and afar
For neither you nor I to underestimate.
An ivory glow in a collection, of daring speeds.
Volumes of bursting thrills, skipping
Bare-handed, playing backwards
In refined ambition. Understood.
Their bodies fall like petals.
Back to accomplished dreams. In altering
Voids of infatuation. Crossing worlds ringed
In a spirited blaze of
Twenty8Twelve in St Tropez for the Pro Alvear CupJuly 31 2012, 10:00
A Poetic Review by Greta Bellamincina (pictured with polo players Lyndon Lea and Juan Pepa)
A deckchair space, unfolds in the flickering glory of the serene shores of St Tropez. A tangle of beauty evokes blinding motion. A polo match transcends along the heated fields of the South of France. Lying in the vastness of the crowd, anticipation sparks a sense of excitement. Flirtation with the production of speed beats along the horizon. The landscape is a freedom of sun and sun dance. The settling of the day drifts by like a summer, testing and foregoing. A gypsy vision of the night leads the sketches of Twenty8Twelve in the infinite sleeves of July.
Friends in rooms
In the chameleon of their love,
She rests her hands on the age of his fancy.
Supporting her weight and her femininity,
Irresistible in Brera.
Built and dark,
An hour overlooked.
Delicate and assured.
Airy in the vast register,
Of temptation’s scenery.
They escape, to sleep
Next to friends in rooms.
Their images shaded and steamed.
Comfort. In mending shapes,
The night unfolds in acres of dusk.
She samples his warmth.
Questions are spoken, in voices
Washed out. Her body invites the exception,
To the bridge and a lake.
All life closed. Wild futures hang,
Lengthy, long and synchronized.
Accidental when watched,
Close together. They go home.
Minds Black and WhiteJuly 26 2012, 12:10
Minds Black and White from Twenty8Twelve on Vimeo.
“An expression of words reeling the fantasy of poetry. An innocent portrayal of two parts, playing with unknowing pretences and positions. A progression of intimacy, where the mood reflects a collision that is only ‘accidental when realised’, illustrated when their hands touch. And the reality creeps into their playful state, withdrawing them back to the social norm of silence”. – Chloe Primrose Pemberton.
“Interludes between two minds, black and white, passing between notes in moments of chance.” – Greta Bellamacina
Directed By: Chloe Primrose Pemberton
Featuring: Greta Bellamacina
Make-up Artist: Karen Beadle
Assistant cinema photographer: Eve Mahoney
Underground Sensation of SohoJuly 23 2012, 10:37
A Poetic Review
by Greta Bellamacina (photos by Jacob Perlmutter)
The slanting streets of Soho disappear in and out of diffused light. A reality of the night, dampened into the electrifying mystery of the day. Sunken back streets play a fable to a time of blasting mayhem. Milk & Honey a windowless secret, serving pink ladies to interlacing strangers. The taste transcends sweet elegance and a comforting getaway from the cascading roads of central London. Masked in a coloured chameleon dress from Twenty8Twelve, casts a wild underground sensation from a quite corner of Soho.
A passing in Soho
An endless void,
For pink ladies, double. Flowerless.
A number, no door.
To cross worlds of broken silences,
Infatuation vaporised. In these vacant times,
Time to turn inwards.
To see how those intervals crazed thee.
In dwellings of,
A reading from “Kaleidoscope”- selected poems at The BridgeJuly 15 2012, 14:48
A Poetic Review
By Greta Bellamacina (photos by Lily More)
In a shadowed corner of East London, The Bridge saloon bar curtained, entrapping the bizarre. Vaporising sound. Blinding out all but curiosity. A toy kingdom of furniture, framing a Venetian edge to what seems to be the entering of the wild fringes of fantasy. A poetry reading unfolds between friends. Interludes within words, settling in a cave of existence. A simple connection between beauty and the intrigue, increasing minds in thoughts and space. Antiquities with eyes and handles stare out from collecting corners. Words smile, and the distant memory of the world beyond seems as grey as the colour. Drinking coffee from Turkish china, philosophy and passion smokes the air. And the memory of ‘love before you love it’ chimes in the moment. Poised in elegant French fancy dresses from Twenty8Twelve depicts the poet’s corner.
Love Before You Love It
Inside the violet livings,
A night veined the fantastic. A first,
Pinned-up and plastic statued.
Expecting satin but found Paris in a room.
She the lady-love, hammocked
A fantasy in the surpassing
Chop of naked reality. Wet eyed
Love. And love before you love it,
Swell it up and fall, over.
Choke at the missing point. And swallow
Love. Love before you love it, a
Living. Turned and spined,
Into the centre point,
Piece of pineapples and pears.
Cast-cut of an exotica is only
Bold in spoken reality. Thoughts are not
Truths beyond the table. Fluent and dressed
She is gone.
Greta with fellow poet Daisy Walker
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