For more information about the artist, please visit http://karen-mary.tumblr.com or http://vimeo.com/karenmaryberr



'Death At Dawn,' A Poem By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM.

Impossibility - Written By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM.

Come, Break - A Poem By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM.

'Judith' Or 'The Book Of Thirst,' A Poem By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM.

'Judith' Or 'The Book Of Thirst,' A Poem By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM

'Bright Abyss,' A Poem By Karen Mary Berr, Read By RM.

Marking the exhibition preview of Nan Goldin, Weekend Plans, Rachael Thomas, Head of Exhibitions, IMMA and renowned American artist and photographer Nan Goldin discusses her connections to Ireland, bringing to light the influence of individual relationships on Goldin’s work, including a 40-year friendship with Irish artist and film-maker Vivienne Dick, who is featured in several of Goldin’s photographic works. Weekend Plans is the first solo exhibition by Goldin to be presented in Ireland, programmed concurrently with the solo exhibition Vivienne Dick, 93% Stardust.

This talk was held at IMMA's Johnston Suite on 16 June 2017.

IMMA-Weekend Plans

Nan Goldin & Rachael Thomas / Artist's Preview Talk

'The Music Box,' a poem by Karen Mary Berr, read by RM.

http://karenmaryberr.com
http://karenmaryberrpoetry.wordpress.com

'The Music Box,' a poem by Karen Mary Berr, read by RM.

'Which of You?' a poem by Karen Mary Berr, read by RM.

http://karenmaryberr.com
http://karenmaryberrpoetry.wordpress.com

'Which of You?' a poem by Karen Mary Berr, read by RM.

Then came a time of caesuras. The lakes
the land, the soul-blue earth, listened.
Some dream, long sealed in the ice of stars,
awakened, tinkling like a crystal glass
under a knife — the dream that all men
dreamed, lying in wet grass under comets,
or thighs vacant in the back of brothels —
a lust for another planet of another hue,
redder than the Red square in Moscow.

Of course, it felt just like a joke, this false
reverie of a false country, but it covered it all,
the heat thicker than honey into which
bears dived and died, bees lost in poppies,
nightingales missing at dawn, their songs,
their small decisions, their inscrutable innocence
filling pages of books never to be read
again. And no one could say if it mattered much
or not, to live under of a birdless sky,
when there wasn’t a creature on this earth,
flapping its wings out of illustrations,
for whom one would gladly give his life.

When the word extinction flooded the news,
everyone felt the roots of his own world
move but sat on, with pictures, pictures
and nothing else, pinned on retinas like moths.
— men falling from boats or towers of steel,
selfies longing to drown in popularity.
A horror so deep only a new ritual could absorb it
— with no icons nor incense, but laughs
and porn halting the mind via telephones.

Oracles hardly depicted such terminal,
that pit of iron oxide, hung like a ruby
in the sky. Never mind — the City of Light
now drifted as a glacier in the distance,
the last trumpet — or was it the whole
Revelation ? — just a broken gutter pipe.
There are so many ways to decline
a miracle, not the jasper flying through the air,
but the air itself. Not the gold but the water.
Heaven was blue. The dream, of blood.

Honey I’m losing you, played the song on repeat.
I can feel it in the air, it’s there everywhere.

During the interval, between the sapphire
and the record, the picture and the eye,
a disk tried not to break in the sunless oceans,
— whales, linked as children in a circle,
danced the perfect dance of Ezekiel’s wheels.
Watching it roll at the surface of water,
for a moment, was enough to unfold
the lungs like newspapers in the wind.

Something in their cry pierced the bones.
It carried the cold ordinary world.
The wild memories that swallowed us all.
The silence of islands and the height of cities.
The mother’s womb and the cruel clock ticking,
the trucks unloading skinned animals
from beds of ice, and the high heels
walking down the same street at dawn.

They were, these colossuses, the sense
of pride and the sense of guilt. Sex,
passion, breath, boredom — gift.
They turned and turned indifferent to greed.

From that rusty ball, you will remember
their grey loneliness, the chant that can’t
reach you, so high up in this vertiginous
Hell. You will crave the modern landscapes,
those you prefered to ignore, the deserts
which contained all human scorn.
The shopping mall, the suburbs, the freeways,
the asylum — all with a kind of softness
in the bone. You will picture the dirty lane,
and the lover you kissed in the dark.

Everything is gone, will play the song
but not the way love is done.

And in the world below, the whales
will achieve their dance in silence
for we only forgive those we understand.

Album de karen mary

Mars, written and read by Karen Mary Berr

A song from the album 'Outistic' by singer-songwriter Ketz. Released in 2013.

Lyrics:
Paris Nocturno

summer it burns
as your love
as the streets
that lose their way
as we walk
as Seine is the sea
as Trocadero Bastille

we cross the bridge
in a waltz of a sound
"I love this place cause you're around"
as dusk drips from the stars
as they fall
on fronts of cars

if there ever was a sun
it was smeared on your lips that day

and just one thing to be done
it was to run away
run away

your legs make me cry
as you walk
i never told you
about thousand tiny strokes
that follow every move
you do by being you

if there ever was a sun
it was smeared on your lips that day

and just one thing to be done
it was to run astray
run astray
to you


05 - Ketz - Paris Nocturno

Karen Mary Berr was born in France, where she studied Applied Arts and Art History. She lived in Bosnia, Lebanon and Canada before returning to France in 2004. She had several exhibitions as a painter in her youth, then as a photographer in collaboration with the Tanztheater Pina Bausch, and is now specializing in Video Art & Poetry. Her personal poetry websites can be found under the following link
Liens externes
https://karenmaryberrpoetry.wordpress.com/
https://vimeo.com/karenmaryberr


Mars, written and read by Karen Mary Berr

Karen Mary Berr

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