Jellied Eels (Film-Poem)

I had a great time reading poems at the Poetry Cafe in Soho tonight as part of the Southbank Poetry Competition awards. Valerie and I also collaborated to turn my third-prize-winning poem, “Jellied Eels”, into the following film-poem.

<a href=""><img src="" alt="jellied-eels" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-6013" /><br />Click here to play the video</a>

Process Notes

I recorded the poem through a pair of walkie-talkies to achieve the desired vocal effect. When then paired Valerie’s piano composition with morse code sounds. With so much going on auditorily, and because the poem itself is quite visual, we opted for a simple pan-out on time-lapse footage of light on water, which ends with a serpentine blur-cut that seemed to converge upon and reinforce the ending image of the poem quite well.

Two Views of “Despot’s Progress” (Film-Poems)

Since releasing a number of audio recordings on The Poetry Storehouse, the film-poem community has been remixing my work. Particularly interesting is to see how different filmmakers reinterpret the same poem. In some ways, this feels like the next best thing to being inside different readers’ heads, experiencing their own internal imagery even as they experience the words of my poem.

There are many different considerations in the essentially ekphrastic form of the film-poem, not the least of which is how closely to follow what happens in the poem with a literal depiction on screen. There is clearly a continuum leading in one direction, from it appearing as though the poem is a narration of the visual events, to the opposite end where there is no immediate or apparent connection between the words and images.

However, Othniel Smith‘s film-poem has shown me that there is also a continuum stretching from literal depiction in the opposite direction, toward a hyper-real depiction of what happens in the poem. He combined American WWII propaganda cartoons, complete with Donald Duck giving the Nazi salute, with the words of my poem. Juxtaposing what I hope is a subtle poem, narrated from the perspective of a more generic despot, with imagery that essentially defines caricature (that is, a cartoon about Hitler) creates a shocking effect.

<a href="">Click here to watch the video by Othniel Smith</a>

Watching it, I recall that most Americans were shielded by the media from realising the total scope of atrocity being carried out by their enemies at the time they were watching these anti-Nazi propaganda films. That is, they did not fully realise they were vilifying the ultimate villain. Thus the poem’s suave and surreal despot, juxtaposed against a period caricature of what later came to represent the pinnacle of evil in the Western world, draws out the more problematic aspects of these two versions of “history”.

Equally sinister is Marc Neys‘ interpretation of the poem, though it veers in the opposite direction, toward little immediate and apparent connection between visuals and words:

<a href="">Click here to watch the video by Marc Neys</a>

While a mother and child play on the beach, the gorgeous and chilling soundscape underneath implies something much darker. Could this be the family of the despot, whom he films on holiday with great affection, underscoring his truly psychopathic nature? Or perhaps this is the family of a general who crossed him, whose images are soon to be erased from film and photograph, even as they too are made to disappear? In any case, this juxtaposition of the poem with images of a seemingly innocent mother and child draws out their vulnerability, leading us to think not of the despot but his victims.

However you view and interpret these film-poems, it is a fascinating for me to see such strikingly different reinterpretations of my poems in video form, a privilege to have them thoughtfully reinterpreted by filmmakers, and a pleasure to watch as the poems take on a new life of their own.

“Despot’s Progress” was first published in Orbis #162.

Despot’s Progress

I can be nice. Some have even called me “fun”.
Coincidentally, those people were all found dead
in an unrelated series of what my good friend
the police chief called, “most unfortunate accidents.”

I dictate in all weathers, including the warm ones, at
a cock-eyed angle, at a balmy degree, with latitude
stretching like a sock across toes, I am writing
a new first-person historic account of my greatness.

Do not frown, my downcast daffodil, we will educate
the appalling masses out of their brawn and head-banging,
forcing the miners to march in light, mincing steps
and eat the thinnest pancakes dusted in icing sugar.

We will drag them into the buoyant train stations
of tomorrow, letter by letter and note by note,
coercing the birds to sing from our national songbook
and shit on the fallen statues of lesser men.

Only the most beautiful women from the most beautiful
villages will be allowed near my coffin to mourn, to shed
tears on demand with an approved mineral content, pageant
veterans turning the good side of their anguish to camera.

Poetry, Remixed (Including Mine)

The Poetry Storehouse is doing for poetry what “open source” has done for software by gathering text and audio recordings under a Creative Commons license. I wrote a bit about what this means, and why it matters, on The Huffington Post.

Because I love this idea, and love collaboration in general, I released a number of my own poems and audio recordings to The Poetry Storehouse earlier this week. Within a short time, the curator Nic Sebastian had re-mixed this mesmerising film-poem based on my poem “Postcards From The War Hospital” (first published in Boston Poetry Magazine).

[vimeo 89751042 w=960 h=540]<a href="">Click here to watch the video</a>

Of course, I have had film-poems made of my poems before, such as the amazing work Alastair Cook did on “Jonah“. It is a different feeling, however, to release one’s poems into the ether, to be adapted by strangers. Yet the element of surprise in this case is precisely what makes this kind of open online collaboration so thrilling.

In the case of Nic’s film-poem, I never would have thought to combine the recording I submitted of me reading the poem with a recording of her reading the poem in duet fashion as she did. The effect is incredibly intimate, just as she intended given the nurse and soldier backstory she alludes to in her process notes. It sounds as though we took turns at the same microphone. Yet we have never met.

The artwork of Adam Martinakis is also incredibly striking. In her notes, Nic points out that the community for visual art online is much larger than that for poetry, and it follows that one effect of sharing this piece online has been to bring many new listeners to poetry who were already fans of Adam’s visual art. My feeling is that everyone wins when artists collaborate across disciplines.

Now, with The Poetry Storehouse, that missing piece of high-quality and freely-available poems falls into place for the film-poem community. May it grow, and prosper, from here.

Snowblindness (Film-Poem)

<a href="">Click here to watch the video</a>


It is hard to know how I got here,
now that we cut the sled dogs loose,
and went our separate ways for help,
hard as pack ice in the footsteps
I crunch into, wondering whose they are,
following a herd of anxious commuters
doubtless on their way to warmth,
raising what look like pitch forks
against the white buildings ahead,
their black tongues crying, “Murder”
as I laugh into the snow-licked wind,
glad not to be the foreman on that rig,
glad to see the thousand-pair kind eyes
blinking out in front of me, soft-nosed
welcome party, parting ways as I approach
the city centre, flushed and sweating,
under this maniacal sun, I skip forward,
breathing heavily, pulling off my clothes.

Process Notes

I found a film of reindeer in the 35mm Stock Footage collection and, after watching it several times, I began to develop a narrative about a man lost in the Arctic Circle. The poem came from there, followed by the video and effects editing and finally the music and sound effects.

Ursula (Film-Poem Online)

<a href=""><img src="" style="max-width: 500px;"><br>Click here to view the video</a>


Black hair. Red claws. That’s all
you need to know. She left
the cubs a long time ago,
and now all she wants is a man
to drink gin and play snooker.
She keeps a gun in her purse
and two ex lovers in jail,
signs her letters with a kiss
and a dab of cheap perfume.
She knows how to use a letter opener,
walk upright like a lady,
forage berries in the forest,
bandage a gunshot wound,
claw her way out of the trunk
of a speeding car, and roll away.
She’s on the hunt when hunted,
growls obscenities when hit
by a tranquillizer dart.
In this city full of garbage,
she knows you by your smell.

Behind the Poem

The BearPaul Stephenson and I have been sending each other postcards with the implicit dare to try to write a poem about whatever is depicted — the stranger, the better. When I received this postcard advertising some kind of noir West End stage production called “The Bear”, it set my head spinning.

I wrote a very different kind of poem about a bear several years ago, a lament that became part of my first short collection Human Shade. But the more I stared at this “dame” with a pistol in her hands, the more she and the bloody-clawed bear behind her seemed to fuse in my mind.

Valerie and I found some old excess footage, now in the public domain, from a Los Angeles film studio in the 1950s, and we put this together with road, wind, and bear noises as accompaniment. So this new film-poem was born.

Learning the Letters (Film-Poem)

Learning the Letters
Britton, South Dakota, 1939

“F” is for future, bright as a lens,
bubbles in the scrubbing basin,
thin as the skin on aunt Agnes’s hand,
the breakable surface of a pollywog egg.
It’s no shame to be poor, but a shame
to be dirty, since soap is cheap
and water is free
, and hats last a lifetime
for those who can’t afford the ribbons and pomade.
One day you will be gee-whiz gone,
just like “T”, like “that”, the last
Cracker Jack in the box, the last farrier
in a town full of town cars — the touchdown
you scored, the gloves, plaques, and blue ribbons
boxed up for safekeeping, which is never quite
safe enough. Outside, it is bright. It is “B”
and you are abuzz at the start of things,
though you “H” and mother says he who “hesitates”
is “L”, which you were once, at the fair,
“lost” in a petrified forest of trousers and skirts,
and will be again job-seeking in Des Moines
or Detroit, the hot, big “D” of Dallas, looking
to make a name that will make the town paper.
There is always a way, when you square up
straight, “F” is for facing the music, the camera,
looking up eye-to-eye as your portrait
gets taken, showing yes, you were “S”
you were somebody, looking, direct and uncertain
down the long barrel of whatever is ahead.


Children of Britton, South Dakota
Filmed by Ivan Besse in 1938
Courtesy Prelinger Archives

8mm projector sound courtesy nemoDaedalus

Music by Valerie Kampmeier

Poem by Robert Peake