Online Magazine Looking for Narrators for Visual Poetry
Project Overview
I'm launching a new online magazine called the Independent Thinker in February. We will have an ongoing video series of poems being read out loud and set to video. "Visual Poetry".
I'm looking for numerous narrators not just one! I'd love to hear your interpretation of how each poem sounds. Please breathe life into these lines of poetry. Use acting and storytelling abilities to make the lines interesting and compelling.
Open to different accents and forms of narration.
Examples:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPT_CmAh-2k (not at that speed however)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n64rBZWLGXE
Please make sure:
1). You have a quality audio recording
2). There is no background noise
3). Your narration style is clear and professional
Thanks! Let me know if you have any questions.
(This could turn into a paid job in the future)
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Clear voice but personalize it however you want!
Would It Surprise You I Don’t Like Mornings? By Andrea O'Rourke
It’s winter in my heart
Icy whispers fill my ears
The wind within my soul
Carries broken shards of tears
It’s winter in my heart
Snow has fallen on my chest
Frost bites at my neck
As the word “Help” dares to escape my lips
These are the things we Rewind
In Order To Halt Time:
cracked VCRs stumbling between the 0:01/0:02,
palms lain flat on the carpet,
pressing into the welcome curve of a book. The slammed doors,
the wine left out in the after,
the elementary loneliness,
the smell of strangers sifting
in the midnight-cranberry-ink of night.
Clear voice but personalize it however you want!
Would It Surprise You I Don’t Like Mornings? By Andrea O'Rourke
It’s winter in my heart
Icy whispers fill my ears
The wind within my soul
Carries broken shards of tears
It’s winter in my heart
Snow has fallen on my chest
Frost bites at my neck
As the word “Help” dares to escape my lips
These are the things we Rewind
In Order To Halt Time:
cracked VCRs stumbling between the 0:01/0:02,
palms lain flat on the carpet,
pressing into the welcome curve of a book. The slammed doors,
the wine left out in the after,
the elementary loneliness,
the smell of strangers sifting
in the midnight-cranberry-ink of night.
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