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
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 London Excursion to the British SeasideJuly 09 2012, 22:07
Situated to the south west of London, an elegant blend of old England is merged along the sand-lit town of Bournemouth. A town draped in white laced cliffs. A mere two hours from the chaos of London, sits a simple romance. Almost in dust form an array of fishermen coat the pier, as the inhaling ocean fills the gaps in the sand. Cycling in twos, an off-beat magic retires along the costal roads. Pastel washed beach huts tease the eye, in a laidback row of colour. All this, when sheltering from the unpredictable weather known as the British rain. The old Print Room Teahouse, inspiring a nostalgic mix of the old music hall tradition. It beckons a taste of all things sweet and theatrical, yet understated and timeless. The tea and scones procuring warm hands to heart. Dressed in Twenty8twelve sundresses and knit, captures a postcard framing the British seaside.
This sawdust corner
Lyrical and sundry, pristine orange.
Is but a slide of the
Effect that the night felt.
She fell for a man,
Who filled her with sand.
Dressing her in a lemon skinned
Dress, casting currents
Alone on the beach side.
Repaired in the milk stoned
Shore. Free swinging sand sun
Caught in their shoes.
Hitching her hem, in to a
Sea flowering, water occurred, settling.
Cascades of outpouring silver.
Shelled and fanning,
An outlook for a beach hut.
Became a passing sigh.
Category: fashion art confrere Author Greta Bellamacina
2012 Kentucky DerbyMay 24 2012, 11:20 fashion press Author Inky Son
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