Lee Video Research

Another clip of a female dancing. Im feeling not having the face in view, just the body as it will relate to the theme of the song more plus it makes it more current and sexy.

Lee Video Research

Again looking for videos featuring females i found another which could be quite effective to my final.

Lee Video Research

I want short video clips of a girl dancing as my chosen song has the lyrics, " Girl I Bin Waiting All Night To See You Dance Like Me". I thought having a girl dancing at certain points will make it seem like a battle or a competition, which is the purpose for the videos i'm using.

Mark - Poet Research

Charles Simic

Hotel Insomnia

I liked my little hole, Its window facing a brick wall. Next door there was a piano. A few evenings a month a crippled old man came to play "My Blue Heaven." Mostly, though, it was quiet. Each room with its spider in heavy overcoat Catching his fly with a web Of cigarette smoke and revery. So dark, I could not see my face in the shaving mirror. At 5 A.M. the sound of bare feet upstairs. The "Gypsy" fortuneteller, Whose storefront is on the corner, Going to pee after a night of love. Once, too, the sound of a child sobbing. So near it was, I thought For a moment, I was sobbing myself.

Mark - Poet Research

Rita Dove

Adolescence II

Although it is night, I sit in the bathroom, waiting. Sweat prickles behind my knees, the baby-breasts are alert. Venetian blinds slice up the moon; the tiles quiver in pale strips. Then they come, the three seal men with eyes as round As dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines. They bring the scent of licorice. One sits in the washbowl, One on the bathtub edge; one leans against the door. "Can you feel it yet?" they whisper. I don't know what to say, again. They chuckle, Patting their sleek bodies with their hands. "Well, maybe next time." And they rise, Glittering like pools of ink under moonlight, And vanish. I clutch at the ragged holes They leave behind, here at the edge of darkness. Night rests like a

John Ashbery

Poem at the New Year

Once, out on the water in the clear, early nineteenth-century twilight, you asked time to suspend its flight. If wishes could beget more than sobs, that would be my wish for you, my darling, my angel. But other principles prevail in this glum haven, don't they? If that's what it is. Then the wind fell of its own accord. We went out and saw that it had actually happened. The season stood motionless, alert. How still the dropp was on the burr I know not. I come all packaged and serene, yet I keep losing things. I wonder about Australia. Is it anything about Canada? Do pigeons flutter? Is there a strangeness there, to complete the one in me? Or must I relearn my filing system? Can we trust others to indict us who see us only in the evening rush hour, and never stop to think? O, I was so bright about you, my songbird, once. Now, cattails immolated in the frozen swamp are about all I have time for. The days are so polarized. Yet time itself is off center. At least that's how it feels to me. I know it as well as the streets in the map of my imagined industrial city. But it has its own way of slipping past. There was never any fullness that was going to be; you waited in line for things, and the stained light was impenitent. 'Spiky' was one adjective that came to mind, yet for all its raised or lower levels I approach this canal. Its time was right in winter. There was pipe smoke in cafés, and outside the great ashen bird streamed from lettered display windows, and waited a little way off. Another chance. It never became a gesture.

mark - Poet Research

Gary Soto

A Red Palm

You're in this dream of cotton plants. You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds Fall with a sigh. You take another step, Chop, and the sigh comes again, Until you yourself are breathing that way With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town. That's hours later. The sun is a red blister Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong, Young, not yet the broken chair In an abandoned school of dry spiders. Dust settles on your forehead, dirt Smiles under each fingernail. You chop, step, and by the end of the first row, You can buy one splendid fish for wife And three sons. Another row, another fish, Until you have enough and move on to milk, Bread, meat. Ten hours and the cupboards creak. You can rest in the back yard under a tree. Your hands twitch on your lap, Not unlike the fish on a pier or the bottom Of a boat. You drink iced tea. The minutes jerk Like flies. It's dusk, now night, And the lights in your home are on. That costs money, yellow light In the kitchen. That's thirty steps, You say to your hands, Now shaped into binoculars. You could raise them to your eyes: You were a fool in school, now look at you. You're a giant among cotton plants. Now you see your oldest boy, also running. Papa, he says, it's time to come in. You pull him into your lap And ask, What's forty times nine? He knows as well as you, and you smile. The wind makes peace with the trees, The stars strike themselves in the dark. You get up and walk with the sigh of cotton plants. You go to sleep with a red sun on your palm, The sore light you see when you first stir in bed.