Performance In Los Angeles' Hollywood

Judith will be performing her show Molly says No ! At the Academy of film and siences in Hollywood on september 29th at 7.30 as part of the Gala organised as a tribute to Hollywood actress Fionulla Flanagan who will receive a lifetime award .

Judith Mok will be sharing the stage with Michael O'Loughlin at the Arts Council tent MindField at the Electric Picnic Festival on sunday the 4th of september at 15.00

Judith Mok will be reading from her new collection of poetry Gods of Babel and talk about her work on Arena tonight on RTE 1.

Book launch Judith Mok august 26 at 18.00

Book launch Judith Mok 4th book of poetry' Gods of Babel'
published by Salmon Poetry.
At the Unitarian Church on St Stephens Green in Dublin on August 26 at six o'clock.
The book will be launched by worldrenowned author Zlata Filipovic and introduced by the Dutch Ambassador to Ireland Mr Robert Engels.
The booklaunch will be celebrated with music by Judith herself accompanied by some sublime musician friends....

RTE 1 broadcast

Judith will be heard on RTE 1 singing Schubert accompanied by Finghin Collins on August 21 during the Sunday Miscellany at 9.10 in the morning
and on sunday august 28 at the same time

finding mozart

Smoke all around me,Smoke from the mouth of made up women in pretty dancers legs ,it drifted up around there headdresses and multicoloured feathers .And then there was smoke from a real machine blowing all around my throne that i sat on because; i was the queen.Ruling the crowds ,coming across on the screen as the Queen of Mean, strong and fearless,when inside me there was nothing but smoke and had you bent me and pressed my body out of my huge dress nothing but bleak smoke would have come out; je ne veux pas travailler ,je veux fumer.But no.not even that.No poets no music no No,just schhhhmoke....And then i heard it ,it was the same compilation of chords as in the magic flute.I sat and waited for the director of the musicvideoclip to boom at me in Liam Neeson's voice again but in my head i was actually sitting beside my friend Daphne and i was 13 years of age doing my first part as a Queen.But i was'nt singing right then.Three girls were singing the part of three boys ,the chords soothing my ears ,my imagination.She walked into the livingroom joinging us kids:Ingeborg Bachmann a writer friend from Austria ,a bosom friend of Daphnes mother.Smoking ,smoking looking sad.Why was she sad i asked Daphne when she got up from the piano to drink some tea.Oh Daphne said,she's in love with a composer and he loves her too but he's gay.That seemed weird to me at the time.I could worship Mozarts music i could worship the thought of the object of my passions but they had to exist to become mine at some stage.Was i pragmatic?I hear the chords again now in a newly written song :they are mine in my memory in my head and body and soul and life and even in space now ,but what about the objects of my passions .All smoke?

falling

It was even better then last year: it was worth braving my way down to this festival for.There were these incomparable 25 minutes of poetry by CK Williams ,he went off at his usual pace spinning the sentences, his upper body in a movement that reminded me of the orthodox ones praying at the synagogue.He went into this trance, or maybe i did.The rare times i hear this man read the world seems the right place to be for the duration of his reading.You fall ,you fail,you get up,you succeed in getting up you listen ,you learn,you dream and it's all there it's all allowed.Heidegger and Vallejo can be brushed away by a simple mon amour,mon amour in the middle of a poem,we are reminded that without the essence of life,love there is nothing, no poetry,no existence After the reading we have dinner,i sit beside CK admire his grandchildren on a picture,admire his love for them,admire him for his warmth his being such a "Mensch".We are with other people who can all magnificently write their way through life.We speak about my father and his work ,his poems and i grow a deep sadness.I see a late september afternoon on an empty northern beach ,we are sitting in the warm sand,our hands and feet recognise the burn of the middaysun still there still held in the ground.We play,my sister and I.Her hair is covering her back in a thick golden mane ,i follow its swing when she runs towards the water where my father is wading his feet in the lukewarm sea.He is talking to a poet friend.They are talking poetry i think ,a six year old with dense copper curls and a head full of fantasies.I am happy for my father to be walking and talking poetry ,i think nothing will ever change in my life after this moment in which i am allowed to watch and hear poetry in the sea air in Bergen aan Zee in the sealight that shines on my mothers head,she's swimming out there in the flat shimmering sea . I,child, don't think i am looking at the poetry; just life.My life.