Posts filed under ‘Poems about Movies’
We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!
And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
What better way to end our poems about movies theme than with this exquisite poem by Hart Crane. Crane is one of the greatest and most original visionaries of twentieth century poetry, shaper of an inimitable aesthetic, master of finding the lyrical in the prosaic, the astonishment of beauty in the tedium of the everyday. What other poet could have taken something as out and out entertaining, as raucously funny, as a Chaplin film, and written a poem this gentle, this heartbreaking? What other poet could have written a line as perfect as “we have seen / The moon in lonely alleys make / A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, / And through all sound of gaiety and quest / Have heard a kitten in the wilderness”?
I can think of no better summing up of this madcap enterprise of illusion and fantasy, of moonlight and tears, that we call the movies.
A. E. Stallings
Late at night,
One of us sometimes has said,
Watching a movie in black and white,
Of the vivid figures quick upon the screen,
“Surely by now all of them are dead”—
The yapping, wire-haired terrier, of course—
And the patient horse
Soaked in an illusion of London rain,
The Scotland Yard inspector at the scene,
The extras—faces in the crowd, the sailors;
The bungling blackmailers,
The kidnapped girl’s parents, reunited again
With their one and only joy, lisping in tones antique
As that style of pouting Cupid’s bow
Or those plucked eyebrows, arched to the height of chic.
Ignorant of so many things we know,
How they seem innocent, and yet they too
Possess a knowledge that they cannot give,
The grainy screen a kind of sieve
That holds some things, but lets some things slip through
With the current’s rush and swirl.
We wonder briefly only about the girl—
How old—seven, twelve—it isn’t clear—
Perhaps she’s still alive
Watching this somewhere at eighty-five,
The only one who knows, though we might guess,
What the kidnapper whispers in her ear,
Or the color of her dress.
We’re almost at the end of our poems about movies theme now, so it feels apt to indulge in a little nostalgia. This little gem comes to you from the archives over at Blackbird, via a recommendation from Space Bar. It’s a pleasant, clever poem, which reminds me, for some reason, of Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much (the 1934 version with Peter Lorre, not the 1956 one) and also makes me think of the time before we had color television, and the shock of seeing some of the shows I’d only known in Black and White suddenly blazing with color.
B. H. Fairchild
Before the lights went out, looking back
in a full house, you must have seen
old faces, child-like with expectancy.
The strangest things can happen. Here.
And then you knew we wanted dreams
where all the terrors that we learned
weren’t real, were real, here, in the dark:
dreams that flickered like venetian blinds
in a white-frame houses where we stood
in halls with roses on the walls, stared
at doors the wind slammed shut, yelled
up stairs before we took one step,
and then another, up. And ran back down.
You took us only where we’d been
before, and then made every fear
come true. The hall that darkens
at the end, leads to darker rooms.
The door that keeps the unknown out,
lets it come in. The winding stairs
that draws us from our mothers’ laps,
won’t let us come back. We stand there,
looking up, and all the shrieks and
flapping wings we ever woke up from,
we wake up to. And when we leave,
glad for light outside dim movie houses,
we grow back into day and wide, white streets.
I have to admit I’m not terribly fond of this poem. There are a couple of phrases in it that make me wince, and I think the end is terribly weak. Plus, frankly, I’m tired of the whole Hitchock: Master of Suspense thing. Yes, the man was brilliant at building up that sense of nerve-wracking tension, of fear and foreboding. But to focus exclusively on that is to miss out on so much more in his films – the quirky little comic turns, the natural ease of his characters, the sheer audacity of combining light-hearted romance with tales of murder and intrigue. Admittedly this is probably more true of his early British films than of his later work (why, oh why would someone with Hitchcock’s talent waste it on Tippi Hedren?), but still.
Having said that, Fairchild’s poem does accurately capture the nightmarish menace of Hitchcock’s films, the way he shows us, again and again the possibility of terror in the heart of the ordinary, so that we can never step into a shower or stare out of the rear window at a neighbor or watch birds gathering on a nearby tree without experiencing that slight premonition of horror, without imagining, for only a split-second, how things could turn out terribly wrong.
Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies
get them out of the house so they won’t
know what you’re up to
it’s true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by
and when you grow old as grow old you
they won’t hate you
they won’t criticize you they won’t know
they’ll be in some glamorous
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or
they may even be grateful to you
for their first sexual experience
which only cost you a quarter
and didn’t upset the peaceful
they will know where candy bars come
and gratuitous bags of popcorn
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment
is in the Heaven on
near the Williamsburg Bridge
oh mothers you will have made
so happy because if nobody does pick
them up in the movies
they won’t know the difference
and if somebody does it’ll be
and they’ll have been truly entertained
instead of hanging around the yard
or up in their room hating you
prematurely since you won’t have done
anything horribly mean
except keeping them from life’s darker joys
it’s unforgivable the latter
so don’t blame me if you won’t take this
and the family breaks up
and your children grow old and blind in
front of a TV set
movies you wouldn’t let them see when
they were young
My thanks to Space Bar for reminding me of this delightful poem. It’s the ultimate ode to escapism, and who better than Frank O’Hara to pen it?
DIRECTOR OF PHOTOGRAPHY: VOICEOVER
Yes I admit to a degree of unease about my
motives in making
Mere prurience of a kind that is all too common nowadays
in public catastrophes. I was listening
to a peace negotiator for the Balkans talk
about his vocation
on the radio the other day.
“We drove down through this wasteland and I didn’t know
much about the area but I was
fascinated by the horrors of it. I had never
seen a thing like this.
I videotaped it.
Then sent a 13-page memo to the UN with my suggestions.”
This person was a member
of the International Rescue Committee,
not a man of TV.
But you can see
how the pull is irresistible. The pull to handle horrors
and to have a theory of them.
But now I see my assistant producer waving her arms
at me to get
on with the script.
The name Lazarus is an abbreviated form of the Hebrew ‘El’azar,
meaning “God has helped.”
I have long been interested in those whom God has helped.
It seems to often be the case,
e.g. with saints or martyrs,
that God helps them to far more suffering than they would have
without God’s help. But then you get
someone like Lazarus, a man of no
on whom God bestows
the ultimate benevolence, without explanation, then abandons
him again to his nonentity.
We are left wondering, Why Lazarus?
My theory is
God wants us to wonder this.
After all, if there were some quality that Lazarus possessed,
some criterion of excellence
by which he was chosen to be called
then we would all start attempting to achieve this.
God’s gift is simply random, well
for one thing
it makes a
more interesting TV show. God’s choice can be seen emerging
from the dark side of reason
like a new planet. No use being historical
about this planet,
it is just an imitation.
As Lazarus is an imitation of Christ. As TV is an imitation of
Lazarus. As you and I are an imitation of
TV. Already you notice that
although I am merely
a director of photography,
I have grasped certain fundamental notions first advanced by Plato,
e.g. that our reality is just a TV set
inside a TV set inside a TV set, with nobody watching
who changed the channel in 399 B.C. But my bond with Lazarus goes deeper, indeed
nausea overtakes me when faced with
the prospect of something simply beginning all over again.
Each time I have to
raise my slate and say
“Take 12!” or “Take 13!” and then “Take 14!”
I cannot restrain a shudder.
Repetition is horrible. Poor Lazarus cannot have known
he was an
but who can doubt he realized, soon after being ripped out of his
warm little bed in the ground,
his own epoch of repetition just beginning.
Lazarus Take 2!
As a bit of salt falls back down the funnel. Or maybe my pity
is misplaced. Some people think Lazarus lucky,
like Samuel Beckett who calls him “Happy Larry” or Rilke
who speaks of
that moment in a game
when “the pure too-little flips over into the empty too-much.”
Well I am no explaining why my documentary
focuses entirely on this moment, the flip-over moment.
Before and after
don’t interest me.
You won’t be seeing any clips from home videos of Lazarus
in short pants racing his sisters up a hill.
No footage of Mary and Martha side by side on the sofa
discussing how they manage
with a dead one sitting down to dinner. No panel of experts
debating who was really the victim here.
Our sequence begins and ends with that moment of complete
and sport -
when Lazarus licks the first drop of afterlife off the nipple
of his own old death.
I put tiny microphones all over the ground
to pick up
of the vermin in his ten fingers and I stand back to wait
for the miracle.
I know, I know, this isn’t really a poem about movies, but it’s close enough. What I love about this poem is the distance it travels, as well as the way it blends ideas and images, the ancient and the modern, the lyrical and the prosaic.
Anne Carson has been pretty much my poet of the month this past July (I’ve blogged about her here and here) so it felt fitting to include some of her work on Poi-tre. This one comes from Men in the Off Hours and is just one of many, many brilliant poems in that collection.
P.S. BM points me to an article about Men in the Off Hours in Slate
It’s the last moment of night in the theatre.
The names of the best boy and key grip
are floating towards heaven. The movie
was about the paralyzing sadness of death
and the last movie I saw in this theater
with my feet up on the balcony
was about the paralyzing sadness of death
but the name Albert Albertson is funny.
His job was to shout, “Quiet on the set”
when the actors were about to be sad
or die. And the director’s job was to ask
if the actors could be sadder, if they could die
better. And the makeup crew
drank together in parking lots and hotel rooms,
always looking at the sky or the bedspreads
for the true colors of sadness, the spooky hues
of death. If the last two movies I’ve seen
had babies together, I’d pay to meet
their offspring in this theater from the 1940s,
recently restored and staffed by volunteers
who enjoy Portugese films about the struggle
to eat good food and Norwegian films
about the agonizingly beautiful noses
of Norwegians. The firstborn
would be an achiever of sadness,
the dead people would die again
so they could be mourned again by the long shot
of birds swirling at sunset like scatter
is what becomes of us. The second born
would be shy and have water in every scene
and at least one actor would smile
and a bicycle would lean against the wall
of the cottage, where after three bottles
of wine, the four couples who’ve come
from the city for a week of the dishes
being magically done after their feasts
and the beds being magically made
after their partner-swapping sex, discuss
the paralyzing sadness of death while a fire
suggests that the cycle of life is beautiful
though not energy efficient. In the third,
a man would read a letter twenty years
after it was written by his mother
about the day they played in the sandbox.
She described how sunlight was trapped
in his hair and that he leaned back
and kissed her shin and how after they buried
his green soldiers to their heads,
they pulled them out and set them free
on the sea of the birdbath. She wrote
the letter just after they played
while looking out the window at another woman
tying the shoe of a little girl, we would see her
at her desk in a flashback after everyone
who would die in the movie has died,
after everyone who would scream has screamed,
after the cup that would look glorious
and symbolic has looked gloriously symbolic,
has glowed on the counter like it can never fade,
though behind and around it everything does.
When he folds the letter and puts it back
in the envelope and comes down from the attic
and touches the hair of a woman who is sleeping
on the couch and carrying how close we come
to being eternal in her womb, the movie will end
with the opening of her eyes, eyes that were cast
because they are brown like the richest soil
and I will sit in the dark while the names
ascend, the sadness of the movie feeling false
because there’s so much of it until the lights
come on and people feed their arms to the appetite
of their coats and faces flow back into skin
and minds return to bodies and bodies recall
how brief they are and I will live in my creaking
seat until the screen catches fire again.
We’ve never run any Hicok on Poi-tre before, which is a shame because he’s one of the funniest and most inventive poets writing today.
‘My Career as a Director’ is classic Hicok. It’s casually conversational, it wanders here and there, skipping lightly from one idea to another, it’s deliciously funny in bits, but also, in a slapdash way, beautiful and somehow genuine. It’s like listening to someone who isn’t trying to be clever, but is, effortlessly. And I love the ease with which Hicok evokes these imaginary films of his, the movies themselves seeming so real that you feel certain that you’ve seen them, or something very like them, but can’t remember what.
Henry is old, old; for Henry remembers
Mr Deeds’ tuba, & the Cameo,
& the race in Ben Hur,—The Lost World, with sound,
& The Man from Blankey’s, which he did not dig,
nor did he understand one caption of,
bewildered Henry, while the Big Ones laughed.
Now Henry is unmistakably a Big One.
Fúnnee; he don’t féel so.
He just stuck around.
The German & the Russian films into
Italian & Japanese films turned, while many
were prevented from making it.
He wishing he could squirm again where Hoot
is just ahead of rustlers, where William S
forgoes some deep advantage, & moves on,
where Hashknife Hartley having the matter taped
the rats are flying. For the rats
have moved in, mostly, and this is for real.
Yet another poem about the nostalgia for old movies. Except this one comes to you in the exuberant and inimitable voice of John Berryman. Berryman’s Dream Songs rank among my favorite works of poetry from the last century – a collection of poems so exquisitely inventive, so casually lyrical, so enthusiastic in their engagement of language that they seem almost drunk with it, so brimming with the wit and rhythm, energy and sweetness that they should, rightfully, be classified as jazz.
P.S. The trailer for John Ford’s ‘Prisoner of Shark Island’ here.
Across the room behind the mirror
he slips a quarter in the slot.
She can’t see him, doesn’t want to, isn’t interested
in being touched.
How are you? she says; it’s what
she always says: safe and friendly, not really
a question. What would you like to talk about?
He doesn’t answer, which isn’t rare, not
unheard of, just dumb.
He drops a quarter in the slot.
She wraps a finger in a strand of hair.
My sister died of fever, she says, it’s what
she always says, it sounds personal, like
she means it. My mother healed herself
by baking bread for eight days straight,
until the racks of loaves reached the kitchen ceiling.
He drops a quarter in the slot.
She has a bruise
the size of a knuckle below her collarbone
and she shows him, which she sometimes does,
though not often. Her husband pushed her there
on his way to work everyday
on his way to poker, on his way to bed.
He’s been gone six years, she says, but it won’t go away.
It’s like a botched tattoo, a smudge of blue ink.
He says something, he says, A tattoo is like a marriage.
He taps the mirror with a coin.
She says, How long were you married?
She says, Sometimes
I can hear the river from my bedroom window.
Sometimes it’s the sea. But I know it’s just the highway,
just traffic passing through .
He drops a quarter in the slot.
She starts to say something else, how she’s been to Hawaii.
She hears the door open, close.
Inspired by Wim Wenders’ 1984 Palm d’Or winning Paris, Texas. As I’ve said elsewhere, Harms is one of my key discoveries of the month – a deceptively plain-speaking poet whose work, at its best, has the vividness and immediacy of a Hopper painting. All poets are, in a sense, storytellers, but Harms’ poems have the feel of good short fiction, of storylines stretching out before and beyond, of authentic incident raised to the pitch of poetry.
Today’s poem comes from Harms’ 2001 collection Quarters – my favorite among his four books. Quarters is fascinating in part because it’s a collection of 25 poems (divided, inevitably, into four parts), each of which includes some reference to quarters. If the writing was less adept, this would seem gimmicky, but as it is the bulk of the poems resonate with a simple, down-to-earth beauty, a quiet depth of emotion against which the repeated coin motif barely stands out.
At one level, ‘Bruise’ is connected to Wenders’ film rather tenuously. While the one-way mirror arrangement it describes closely parallels that in the film (you can see the relevant scene here - though it’ll spoil the film for you) none of the lines in the poem occur in the script, and the coin arrangement Harms describes is his own invention. Yet for all that the poem is true to the spirit of the film, to the psychological reality of the interaction between these two people, so that reading it, and imagining the scene it describes, is like watching an alternative take from the movie, a scene that got cut out perhaps, a fragment from the larger drama that got left on the cutting floor.
I had a small, nonspeaking part
In a bloody epic. I was one of the
Bombed and fleeing humanity.
In the distance our great leader
Crowed like a rooster from a balcony,
Or was it a great actor
Impersonating our great leader?
That’s me there, I said to the kiddies.
I’m squeezed between the man
With two bandaged hands raised
And the old woman with her mouth open
As if she were showing us a tooth
That hurts badly. The hundred times
I rewound the tape, not once
Could they catch sight of me
In that huge gray crowd,
That was like any other gray crowd.
Trot off to bed, I said finally.
I know I was there. One take
Is all they had time for.
We ran, and the planes grazed our hair,
And then they were no more
As we stood dazed in the burning city,
But, of course, they didn’t film that.
Simic’s poem, unlike the others we’ve run in this series so far, is not about a specific film or filmmaker; it’s not really about film at all. Instead, Simic is using the metaphor of cinema to examine the human presence in history, the marginal yet all-important way in which the average man or woman participates in the events that shape his / her world. We are all extras in the blockbuster of history, faces lost in the “gray crowd”, bodies that, as Eliot put it, “will do / to swell a progress, start a scene or two”. But like amateurs who have wandered into a shot and been allowed to stay, we are proud and exhilarated to be here, anxious to point ourselves out afterwards to our friends and family. Never mind how insignificant our role, how unnoticed our presence, how tiresome the effort involved, what matters, in the end, is our ability to say that we too were once in the movies.
Oh, and I love the way Simic’s description here connects to the images we already have in our head, conjuring up a scene that is part old documentary footage and part black and white war movie.
P.S. My thanks to Space Bar, who has provided a number of marvelous suggestions for this series, including this one.
P.P.S: I personally have had some trouble running the audio to this poem (which comes to you via The Poetry Archive) in Firefox, though it seems to work fine in IE.
Agha Shahid Ali
Durga dies in the rains,
her tongue bitter with stolen
fruit. Beyond the field, trains
escape a boy’s dreams, run
into the air. A necklace chains
him to the water’s bones, turns
his reflection sour. Wherever
Apu goes, to the temple or the river,
he carries Durga’s smile to the depths of the air.
Another favorite director, another great film, and another spectacular poet. Shahid gets it exactly right, as always, his short simple phrases reflecting perfectly the black and white starkness of Ray’s film, a lyrical sparseness that gives it an indefinable and austere beauty, like a smile carried “to the depths of the air”.
To see how well this poem works, just watch this clip, and then come back and read the lines “Beyond the field, trains / escape a boy’s dreams, run into the air.”