Nemcatacoa Teatro presents Tricyclic — (with dancing acrobatics!)

Nemcatacoa Teatro, of Bogota, Colombia, (who brought you Dios de la Adrenalina with the Carpetbag Brigade of San Francisco and musicians, Hojarasca) is embarking on an amazing new project.

I am pleased to announce that the Kickstarter for their new project “Tricyclic” has less than 50 hours left to reach their funding goal.

Why do we as poets and writers care about the success of this project? For my followers today, you know that this blog is really a place of poetry. The performing artists of Nemcatacoa Teatro have put poetry in my heart. They have performed to spoken word. They have touched me with their kind spirits and warmness, with their passion for life and I am happy that my family has been involved in their art.  I love these kind people and I feel so alive when going back over their 2013 tour, that I feel like asking for your support for them today…. Please visit Kickstarter. A small donation of $1-5 can really help.

My younger sister is their Foreign Artist in Residence. Her life took an amazing turn when she joined the Carpetbag Brigade in 2013 and it has not been the same since…tour her journey as a dancer here and consider assisting her with her artistic dreams.

Currently, I am in the ebb of my writing, where my new job is demanding much of my creative juice, but autumn is coming, and there is little else more important than poetry in October, thus I will begin to contribute to my own art again very soon. The spark of creativity that comes back when remembering the time I spent with the spirited and strong individuals of Nemcatacoa Teatro is sinking into my bones as I write.

We all know that art is often dependent on believers and doesn’t have the same widespread financial support as other things we also love. Often the only thing that keeps various types of the arts afloat is people coming together and supporting through various platforms (e.g. kickstarter, indiegogo).  If you also fall in love with this project, please help me spread the word, the clock is ticking.

I have included some of what I experienced in 2013. Please enjoy.

Watch, look and listen:
Dios de la Adrenalina at Arcosanti in June 2013
In New Orleans, 2013
Their official website
In Prescott, Arizona
Musical group Hojarasco performed with the stilt dancers, here they perform in California

Read Poetry:

Dear Acrobats

Acrobats, I found you in a year when certain creativity was in the flux of
bloom or chrysalis. Your eyes greeted mine with stark white cornstarch and
charcoal on your foreheads… and your noses creased with a smile. It would rain on each
day you were scheduled to perform. Waiting and starring at the drops—falling, your
ears would pick up the thunder and the lightning would cue you forward. Would the
future be your white contrast, red contrast, black contrast against the monsoon world
growing darker or lifting? Acrobats, I found you all steady on your stilts. Reaching each
hand as it came towards you and lifting one after another into the sky as the sound of
indigenous Colombian flutes filled the air and the souls of all that stood in witness.
Joining us, joining all who followed you through the Square with a single audible gasp.
Kinetic human sculptures. Casting permanent shadows on the roadways where
life has taken you, imprints of music and passion on the memories of your audience.
Mucho Gusto.
Nemcatacoa Teatro and The Carpetbag Brigade hands tethered in performance with Great
Others. A range of faces I won’t forget & names my tongue intends to continue shaping.
Products of each other, products of self and nature, of society and the love of art. The
questions that are left on our lips may never form for you. Yet the matter will be long
retained. Acrobats, I have wishes that once again the bricks will be red and white and our
Square will give way to after-parties that reveal the tenderness and humanity that make
thunder and lightning have new meaning. Erasing a tornado that haunts a poet’s
unconsciousness. Acrobats, a homage and prayer, for each of you I have grown to know
very little, yet goose bumps rise and this jaw aches as I take on a challenge to
write to you and convey as much depth and width and weight as the variable
xi might call. All that is what you—Acrobats—drum up in the heat, this energy and
yearning. A comprehension of the vacío y palabras that awaken our chaos and our
zen. Mix well in a jar with love for my kin, rising dreams and the scent of rain.

~Brandy Nemeth-Shorten Bell

In the Wake

Where the story goes
I smell beer and see
Where it runs under my shoes
On the train
A passenger losing balance and
Breaking code
Before me
Now the smell grows stale
And I try to pick up the pieces
Of the fans
See their faces
Floating home on the rhythm
Of the army
All feeling as king and queen
When victory flooded
Rose City

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Ink and Pen

And paper smelled of pain.

The generations of scribbles
read together as lost words
that couldn’t connect
the rolling of empty train cars
with the people that had to
empty them.
Who owns letting paper
turn to ash?
Perhaps us all.
Pain smells of plastic
doll faces, the echoes you’ve
always tried to write down.
And images that keep
pushing into places they grew
out of long ago.
But not before they became
the smell of pain.
Pain smells like shadows
that vanish before you can turn.
And the needle that hurts to cure
“Only for a second”
before the poet smells the ink,
and it substitutes
what pain smells like.

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