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Technicolored
Cinematic and literary, this collection of poems reflects on the film icons of the 20th century, offering a fresh look at legends such as Alfred Hitchcock, Orson Welles, Rita Hayworth, and Béla Lugosi. This work exhibits meticulous tone and language while delving into the opulent world of classic films. Of interest to fans of both contemporary poetry and classic <!--? prefix = st1 ns = "" /-->Hollywood, this collection further explores the intersection between film and literature.
85 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2007
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
January 21, 2022
She knows what her lineup of men
passing around pieces of gum
has secretly hoped it could purchase today.
Therefore, the dark-haired girl
tasting like the orange
bestowed earlier by a fiancé
now tips her body towards me
and slips between my teeth a tongue
unsanctioned by any fair
before returning her attention
to the town library’s only edition of Rimbaud
with the sneaky French on the facing pages.
* * *
This first kiss on this cold street
could have once jailed Galileo
for the heavenly point it proves
but tonight, merely moves
two souls into steady revolution
around and about the warm
fixed fact of our brilliant lips.
* * *
What could Joseph possibly have said to Alida
if she’d paused to consider him
on her long way down the cemetery road?
Leaves left their trees and turned,
slow as Ferris wheels
against an Austrian sky, an though
Joseph was within seconds of his last
lonely cigarette, there were still (it seemed)
a thousand chances for Alida to pause,
for two near-lovers to gaze across
a grand moment at each other, Anton Karas’s
zither score inoculating the season.
* * *
Restore me to life, sure, but not
potted in poetry. (If anything, I
was sunlight, and broads like you
the foliage, straining on your stalks
to sop me up.) Honey, plant yourself.
Peddle museums on the subway, make
That buck. You, too, would take
Pool tables over coffins.
* * *
In the light proposed by an overhead window,
the very same species of smile that
bothered da Vinci to his brushes
now made a mystery of Orson’s face.
A novelist, stunned by this tryst of the lips,
called out across the slick cobblestones,
but Orson’s shadow slid freely away
along the crumbling walls like
fresco excused from its plaster.
passing around pieces of gum
has secretly hoped it could purchase today.
Therefore, the dark-haired girl
tasting like the orange
bestowed earlier by a fiancé
now tips her body towards me
and slips between my teeth a tongue
unsanctioned by any fair
before returning her attention
to the town library’s only edition of Rimbaud
with the sneaky French on the facing pages.
- Ennui at the Kissing Booth in B&W, pg. 23
* * *
This first kiss on this cold street
could have once jailed Galileo
for the heavenly point it proves
but tonight, merely moves
two souls into steady revolution
around and about the warm
fixed fact of our brilliant lips.
- As Suggested by the Calculations of Copernicus, pg. 39
* * *
What could Joseph possibly have said to Alida
if she’d paused to consider him
on her long way down the cemetery road?
Leaves left their trees and turned,
slow as Ferris wheels
against an Austrian sky, an though
Joseph was within seconds of his last
lonely cigarette, there were still (it seemed)
a thousand chances for Alida to pause,
for two near-lovers to gaze across
a grand moment at each other, Anton Karas’s
zither score inoculating the season.
- Autumn at the End of The Third Man, pg. 41
* * *
Restore me to life, sure, but not
potted in poetry. (If anything, I
was sunlight, and broads like you
the foliage, straining on your stalks
to sop me up.) Honey, plant yourself.
Peddle museums on the subway, make
That buck. You, too, would take
Pool tables over coffins.
- Ava Gardner Responds to “Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia” by Margaret Atwood, pg. 55
* * *
In the light proposed by an overhead window,
the very same species of smile that
bothered da Vinci to his brushes
now made a mystery of Orson’s face.
A novelist, stunned by this tryst of the lips,
called out across the slick cobblestones,
but Orson’s shadow slid freely away
along the crumbling walls like
fresco excused from its plaster.
- Orson Welles’s Smile, pg. 66
January 3, 2018
Poems about old movies, a conceit I didn't love, but this collection is much stronger, in my opinion, than "Satisfying Clicking Sound." Will definitely come back to some of these again.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews