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Ebb & Flow
An underwater video responding to Gemma White’s poem - The Mariner’s Lover for prod! Supported by media@rmit and the Australian Poetry Centre.
Videographers: Emma Davies, Eliza Hull, Angeline Lim
The Mariner's Lover
by Gemma White
It is not possible. Seas have upheaved upon us.
It is not a surprise; I saw the new tide coming.
It scared me from the first idle rip-wave. You couldn’t
look that far ahead. It was too misty, you said. Besides,
you could not tell which way you would drift. And you wanted
to be billowed by any coming breeze, whirled into the eye of
any ocean twister, following the tailfins, of any bejeweled sea heiress.
For me it is different. I can no longer give anchor to this mirage
of feeling. The albatross has flown. I thought, shooting it down
could only bring me grief, but its death is a herald of relief, feathered
hope whispering in, like discarded seagull plumes. He is touching me
in the subtle dip and meet, of calami alighting water; free. My ancient love,
I have lost your compass. And it seems, you have lost me.
Published 10 months ago
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Flowerman
Stopmotion & timelapse video responding to Gemma White’s poem - The Mariner’s Lover for prod!
Supported by media@rmit and the Australian Poetry Centre.
Videographers: Emma Davies, Eliza Hull, Angeline Lim
The Mariner's Lover
by Gemma White
It is not possible. Seas have upheaved upon us.
It is not a surprise; I saw the new tide coming.
It scared me from the first idle rip-wave. You couldn’t
look that far ahead. It was too misty, you said. Besides,
you could not tell which way you would drift. And you wanted
to be billowed by any coming breeze, whirled into the eye of
any ocean twister, following the tailfins, of any bejeweled sea heiress.
For me it is different. I can no longer give anchor to this mirage
of feeling. The albatross has flown. I thought, shooting it down
could only bring me grief, but its death is a herald of relief, feathered
hope whispering in, like discarded seagull plumes. He is touching me
in the subtle dip and meet, of calami alighting water; free. My ancient love,
I have lost your compass. And it seems, you have lost me.
Published 10 months ago
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Set Adrift
Featuring contemporary dancer Verity McLucas; responding to Gemma White’s poem - The Mariner’s Lover for prod!
Supported by media@rmit and the Australian Poetry Centre.
Videographers: Emma Davies, Eliza Hull, Angeline Lim
The Mariner's Lover
by Gemma White
It is not possible. Seas have upheaved upon us.
It is not a surprise; I saw the new tide coming.
It scared me from the first idle rip-wave. You couldn’t
look that far ahead. It was too misty, you said. Besides,
you could not tell which way you would drift. And you wanted
to be billowed by any coming breeze, whirled into the eye of
any ocean twister, following the tailfins, of any bejeweled sea heiress.
For me it is different. I can no longer give anchor to this mirage
of feeling. The albatross has flown. I thought, shooting it down
could only bring me grief, but its death is a herald of relief, feathered
hope whispering in, like discarded seagull plumes. He is touching me
in the subtle dip and meet, of calami alighting water; free. My ancient love,
I have lost your compass. And it seems, you have lost me.
Published 10 months ago
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My Compass
A collaboration with five musicians shot in a 'pass-it-on' style, responding to Gemma White’s poem - The Mariner’s Lover for prod! Supported by media@rmit and the Australian Poetry Centre.
Videographers: Emma Davies, Eliza Hull, Angeline Lim
The Mariner's Lover
by Gemma White
It is not possible. Seas have upheaved upon us.
It is not a surprise; I saw the new tide coming.
It scared me from the first idle rip-wave. You couldn’t
look that far ahead. It was too misty, you said. Besides,
you could not tell which way you would drift. And you wanted
to be billowed by any coming breeze, whirled into the eye of
any ocean twister, following the tailfins, of any bejeweled sea heiress.
For me it is different. I can no longer give anchor to this mirage
of feeling. The albatross has flown. I thought, shooting it down
could only bring me grief, but its death is a herald of relief, feathered
hope whispering in, like discarded seagull plumes. He is touching me
in the subtle dip and meet, of calami alighting water; free. My ancient love,
I have lost your compass. And it seems, you have lost me.
Published 10 months ago
