Moving Poems

An experimental short to which the poem was added at the end — which to me makes for a more satisfying blend than most videopoems where words and images are tightly matched.

This is an experimental short movie made in a week (from the concept to the final release). This movie doesn’t want any interpretation. The poem was chosen after the filming. Finally was composed the music. The basic idea is to show some scenes before go to bed leaving an unhappy impression.

A literal illustration of Tristan Tzara’s technique by Yeju Choi. An alternate translation of the 1920 text appears on Red Studio’s page for an online equivalent of this technique. I love the closing lines:

The poem will resemble you.
And there you are—an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

Baudelaire’s famous poem from Flowers of Evil turned into a chanson by Léo Ferré, from a recital given in 1969. The Fench text and multiple English translations may be found here; I’ve appended the translation by Edna St. Vincent Millay, which may or may not be the best (I don’t know French), but is certainly the most song-like.

When the low, heavy sky weighs like the giant lid
Of a great pot upon the spirit crushed by care,
And from the whole horizon encircling us is shed
A day blacker than night, and thicker with despair;

When Earth becomes a dungeon, where the timid bat
Called Confidence, against the damp and slippery walls
Goes beating his blind wings, goes feebly bumping at
The rotted, moldy ceiling, and the plaster falls;

When, dark and dropping straight, the long lines of the rain
Like prison-bars outside the window cage us in;
And silently, about the caught and helpless brain,
We feel the spider walk, and test the web, and spin;

Then all the bells at once ring out in furious clang,
Bombarding heaven with howling, horrible to hear,
Like lost and wandering souls, that whine in shrill harangue
Their obstinate complaints to an unlistening ear.

— And a long line of hearses, with neither dirge nor drums,
Begins to cross my soul. Weeping, with steps that lag,
Hope walks in chains; and Anguish, after long wars, becomes
Tyrant at last, and plants on me his inky flag.

Poem by Jacques Prévert

Video by vandicla

Here for reference purposes are the text and an English translation as copied from an anonymous webpage, which notes that the title of the original is in English:

Paris at Night

Though in other video poems I might object to a less than fully audible reading, here, I like the way the poem is submerged — a low mutter appropriate to the darkness from which flame, face, and song struggle to emerge.