#poetry film

[thisgeisha]

Trailer for my song that’s out now, “LISTA” 🎶

IG: nikkilorenzo

[frankensteinsfairy]

The Carnivorous Nature of Girlhood

[orangeivyfairy]

To my daisy,

The driver of the knife between my shoulder blades,

& the painter of my agony,

I still love you, beauty

Your memory destroys me.

[refrigeratorhumming]

Ron Hicks, 1965 | Romantic soul

to know is perhaps, to sin;

to be free, and yet bound.

-refrigeratorhumming.

[poetencollins]

Lana Del Rey - Never To Heaven (Poetry Film)

𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 

𝐬𝐨 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥

[rominanikolic]

🖤🖤🖤 A film poem trailer..

[jordanbolton]

To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton

Pre-order my new book ‘Blue Sky Through the Window of a Moving Car’ here - https://smarturl.it/BlueSky

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

imagination (1963) - harold ordway rugg

"chekhovs cat / schrödingers razor / occams gun"

[theperplexedpoet]

less than a god...

Our latest short film has hit the Tubes! destitute III (2023) is the final poetry short of the Pawn's introductory trilogy of films! The Pawn's journey of self discovery continues in this newest chapter! Watch it for free on our YouTube channel at the link below:

[thisgeisha]

“do you blame me?”

I wrote, recorded, and shot this piece all on my bathroom floor today. And because of it, I was able to get up again.

Hope you enjoy xx

http://www.instagram.com/nikkilorenzo

[frankensteinsfairy]

The Feminine Urge to be Perceived.

[jr-the-frog]

NICE CUP OF TEA (A JOURNEY OF MEMORIES THROUGH CENTRAL LONDON) (2022)

Directed by Lee Campbell

A short poetry film about the excitement of meeting someone for the first time and going on your first date, spent reminiscing whilst drinking cups of tea.

Apparently I really like Campbell's poetry films. 😅

[stateofgeorgie]

In Autumn, the island's country roads rumble under the weight of men on tractors, laden with burlaps sacks fat with olives, black, purple green. Olive mills are crowded with them, dropping off sacks, picking up great canisters of liquid green-gold olive oil. October, November, December - women in trees,  kids below spreading canvases to catch the fruit. If you're lucky, your trees will be ready to harvest before the weather turns cold enough to nip at your fingers and nose, you will picnic under the bounteous trees.

  🎪 Pinterest: https://gr.pinterest.com/homegiftguide/  🖼️ Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/april0ctober/ 🗿 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/april0ctober/ 

 - olive harvest - poetry film - Zakynthos, Greece - 

 filmed by ANTA stone villa and their organically farmed olive grove (antaconcept.com) 

 Let's say the year starts in fall. Let’s just say it, without asking if it’s true. There is fruit, dark, perfect, juicy and bitter. The wind blows and fruit falls. The wind blows and golden leaves fall. The grass lies shrivelled from summer. The fruit is heavy on these branches, But half lasts till the dying of the light, Midwinter, they are shrivelled wineskins That shine like gold in raindrops and sunbeams. They crust the concrete with loamy pebbles, Fertilize glades, groves, gutters, and concrete. Thick grass prepares to coat everything. Trees look always the same, unchanging though The slender stalks that unfurl the first eye-soft leaf In the gentle days before spring have turned into ship-like Hollow cases adrift on the land, Caught in walls, falling into wells, filled in the flood with dirt like that they sprang from, wine-dark, mixed with seeds, half rot and half roots. The dirt inside such twisted coffins harbours stories, people never seen before, a carnival of life. That bitter juice, that smooth black skin, those large craggy seeds, those silver blades hold forth, deliver a message for the whole community of life. The wind carries it, the summer comes in with slim blossoms, messages carried still further. Messages of cream, of the fat of life and the almost sensible secret scent of growing things. Summer makes seeds of tiny buds, puts flesh on their bones, sends them bouncing and bright into the hands of little children amidst the thrill of a first gentle lifting up to the community of twigs and air. They grasp, release, gasp at the height, The ancient dance is skilfully executed by chunks of solidified light. The bright new baubles, pale as grass, entice the child to put a foot on the first step of roots and each step leads to the next. The sense of the limbs takes over. The puzzle is laid bare. Old, still arms made light with new life lift and lift. The process is self-evident, the mystery cracks open. Weights meet in balance, wood bounces, a foot bounces and a seed in such a state can sometimes bounce as far as the sea. That sea tells secrets, hears everything whispered, sends its waves to lend a hand. It carries the sky inside and out, light in every straight line stirring the mess together. It rests and wrinkles the bones of old groves when their roots go deep enough. Like always, summer grows heavy and sags, vines and fields are sticky and buzzing with life, juice runs over the dry grasses. Ripening, always ripening. When fall comes again, they stand ready to receive a communion of sorts, secretive but informal, an exercise of limb and mind, an activity that must end in mulch. Everything dies like this, sacrificing its former life to future life. Dying is fundamental. Seeds and seedlings eat their clothes And offerings are made to all, regardless of deserving. Food is given in every form but only some look to us like death. A rot produces a perfume too; some say it is not very different from an orchid’s. We take and take, fill pockets and pantries, Stain our clothes our hair our minds, and feed on oil that burns our throats for sheer freshness What’s left will be torn apart by the wind. Hidden away, purified to the utmost, a fruit becomes a commodity Its link to its old life withers away. Its future existence stretches forth as always, exploring the vast web of possibilities ________________________________ 

 olives, olive trees, olive harvest, farming, organic, film, short movie, film festival, poem, poetry film, olive grove, Greece, Jim Jarmusch, Paterson, original poetry, nature, ambient music, ambient sounds, relaxing visuals, Greek islands, alternative tourism, food tourism, eco tourism, greek filmmaker, cinematographer, fuji-xt30, shot with fuji, fuji xt30, fuji eterna, poetry film, poetry short film, spoken poetry film, poetic film, poet film, poetic filmmaking, visual poetry film, film poem, short film, documentary, short doc, olives, Zante, Zakynthos, april october studios, fujifilm, fujii, olive harvest, organic, farming, bio, ANTAconcept

[refrigeratorhumming]

One day, love —

One day,

i'll be able to hold your hand, and feel the warmth of your palm sink into mine.

One day,

i'll be able to lean in and whisper a nonsensical joke in your ear, and see your eyes alight with laughter.

One day,

i'll be able to sit across you on a table, in a remote cafe and tell you how much you mean to me.

One day,

i'll be able to walk alongside you on the beach, on the side of the road, wherever and whenever, hands clasped together and knocking into each other.

One day,

i'll be able to sit alongside you and watch the moon, admire it. Watch you watch the moon, admire you, for far longer.

One day,

i'll be able to see the sun slowly light up your face as you lay next to me, sound asleep. Kiss your closed eyes and your closed grin because alas! you were awake all along.

One day,

i'll be able to sit at our little dining table with only two chairs, in our little home, with you. Sort out our bills and plan ahead about what we'll cook for dinner, together.

One day,

i'll be able to hear the doorbell ring, and know it's you waiting outside.

One day,

i'll be able to go to bed, flicking the lights off and in the dark, cuddling close to you, your ever present warmth.

One day,

i'll be able to kiss you till we're out of breath and drunk on love, love and love. And never stop.

One day,

i'll be able to turn towards you and stare at your pretty self, at the way you stare back, giddy and pleasant, at the way destiny works.

One day,

i'll be able to live this silly little thing called life, with you.

and if it so happens that this life time — this universe —now, here, later, is not enough -

then,

One day, that fine one day,

in another lifetime — another universe — another now, another here, another later —

i'll sit in my lonesome, on the first day of 8th grade, in a bustling class, staring at my hands.

That day,

i'll shift to the side as another person occupies the empty spot next to me.

That day,

i'll hear you speak,

a soft, 'hi'.

That day,

i'll raise my head, and see the face of an angel.

That day,

when time slows to a hault and fate starts up its machinery,

when life narrows down to a single moment,

That one day,

i'll meet you, again.

It's a promise.