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Write a poem that casts a fresh eye over a classic movie—any form, any length, any mood. This challenge comes from the lovely Susan Jarvis Bryant. Her example is below. Post your movie-inspired poem in the comments below.
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Wafting in the Wind
“Quite frankly, my dear, I just don’t give a damn!”
He declaimed as the curtain came down
On her high-cotton life as a wife to this man—
She’d been crazy to cling to a clown.
He had sucked the bold breeze from her billowing sails.
Scarlett’s cheeks turned as red as her name.
As the keen buzzards pecked on love’s steaming entrails,
Vexation held Butler to blame.
He had picked on a vixen equipped with the kick
Of a mule fueled by scorn and raw hate.
She flicked her cute boot in a trick so dang quick
The Grim Reaper appeared at the gate.
Rhett wafts in the wind as it wails through the night
While O’Hara plays coquettish host
To her shadowy cad clad in wild wisps of white—
She has thrown her stone heart to a ghost.
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Once upon a time in the West (1968)
The thoughts of McBains youngest son as he waited for Frank to kill him.
If death had to call on this ill cursed day,
my dear beloved at least were spared his face,
and not the torturous malice that delayed
the surety that brought life’s last embrace.
I looked into his blue foreboding eyes
but not before I heard his fearsome roar,
and saw the horror that he caused here lie:
my stricken family by his sharp teeth, gored.
At least the day had woke us with a smile,
that found the faces of my erst glad kin,
before with cruel intent and loathsome guile,
the Devil marched his evil purpose in.
I pray my death he will not long defer,
to rid me of my mind’s cruel saboteur.
Again: Once upon a time in the West
I hope this isn’t turning into an obsession
Again: The young boys thoughts before Frank kills him.
My kin lay on the desert sand
sprawled out like, hunted game.
Their bodies hold the devil’s brand,
all fiery temperament tamed.
The shot that tore my sisters heart
has wound its way to mine.
Now on the soil their blood imparts
a vigorous ruddy wine.
Step mum who I had never met
whom my father, proudly wed,
your first sight of his dear loved pets
will see us lain down dead.
I look into the Devil’s face
and see his cold blue eyes.
and know the life I once embraced
will leave me here to die.
At least there’s mercy in the breeze
which gently blows my hair,
while I ready as the trigger’s eased
for the bullet I will wear.
Lust for Life
I writhe on a bed of confusion,
recalling traumatic details,
confined I receive a transfusion,
that tethers my tempests to veils.
My love was rejected as frightful.
No woman could bear my excess.
The whispers of neighbors were spiteful,
my habits evoking distress.
From summits of sundry emotions
my head was a haven of schemes;
then plunging to odd ebon oceans,
’twas lust in my dreams.
So thrusting my passion to painting,
that beauty would glow in clear light,
my zest overcame to near fainting,
by lantern that burned day and night.
I drew in the workshops with weavers,
we gathered by fire to share;
at harvests collected by heavers,
their flesh etched by wear.
The landscape in Arles glowed in sunlight,
its colors absorbed by my soul;
my brushes a storm seeking foresight,
with vision of beauty my goal.
A steamengine stripped of direction,
relinquishing self as I race,
till I look at the mirror’s reflection,
’tis blood that I face.
Poor Theo sits sad with devotion,
good news is the painting that sold,
but I’m back in the odd ebon ocean,
and flooded by lust’s frenzied hold.
g.KayeNaegele 4/1/19, edit 3/28/22
A/N: 1935 “Lust for Life” novel by Irving Stone, 1956 movie “Lust for Life” and letters to Theo
The Little Foxes
At sunrise on the foggy field
once fertile crops were gone;
without the glow of grain to yield
the Hubbard kin moved on.
They settled in a sultry town
with avid appetites
and ravished every ripened crown,
each golden grape by bites
Although appearances defied
existence of a lack,
they slithered round the countryside
to steal a savory snack.
By hoax the foxes flourished there,
but lusted ever more.
They coveted king’s robes to wear,
in castles built of gore.
Rejoicing those gains gratified
from friend or foe or kin,
if aims remained unsatisfied
a mate might lose his skin.
Now foxes own the ninety-nines
and sit on seats of gold.
When vice and violence make headlines,
the devil’s grin is bold.
g.KayeNaegele 11/23/17, edited 7/4/20
A/N: Play 1938 by Lillian Hellman, movie 1941 with 8 Academy
Award nominations. “There are people that eat the earth and eat
all the people on it like in the Bible with the locusts. Then there are people sho stand around and watch them eat it. Sometimes I think it ain’t right to stand and watch them do it”. Lillian Hellman
© 4 years ago, G.EveKaye aka G.Kaye Naegele
The Night of the Iguana
As Reverend Shannon I was praised.
I preached and pious hands were raised;
exalting God’s love, faith and grace,
divine light filled the chapel space.
When suddenly a supple flower
lured me from my vowed willpower,
my sin reproached me from each face
and god’s love fled from my disgrace.
How swiftly sway the autumn leaves
in seasons of a bitter breeze.
And soon once sunlit verdant greens
that graced the skies with summer dreams,
turn to a glowing gold and rust
then curl and crack and float to dust;
with no betrayal of dismay,
in silence in the breeze they stray.
Now sweat drips from my shabby tees,
on shoddy tours old crows to please
who scowl, complain and disapprove;
they scorn the tour, my every move.
Like the lizard lashed to a post,
I’m bound as food for fools to roast.
Is this the fate to which I fell,
a bitter curse in living hell?
I pray to be that peaceful leaf
that in its silence knows no grief;
to gently float without a care,
oblivious to life’s despair.
But when I note the lizard’s plight,
its struggles tied to rope in fright,
provoked I cut God’s creature free
as grace renewed enlightens me.
g.KayeNaegele 8/26/17, edited 10/14/21
A/N: With tribute and apologies to Tennessee Williams
The Grapes of Wrath
Wrath born of dust in endless drought,
where once lush crops were plenty,
caused hungry farmers’ desperate rout,
their pockets torn and empty.
They hobbled hungry to the West,
where rumor whispered wages,
that sunlight shone and soil was blessed
with bounty for the ages.
Old trucks swayed on the rutted road,
past flowr’ing fields of plenty.
The fear in children’s eyes forebode
the sorrow of the many.
What wages bought was bitter bread,
in land that flowed with honey.
Tormented migrants toiled and bled,
while few grew fat with money.
More progress came with plutocrats,
pretending to be sages.
Sweet grapes they left to rot in vats,
bred wrath that soured ages.
g.KayeNaegele 2/16/17, edit 3/26/21 AN: The book by John Steinbeck, 1939, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize in 1962.
© 5 years ago, G.EveKaye aka G.Kaye Naegele
The Agony and The Ecstasy
I beg among the lonely hours
oblivious to time and space
and pace beneath the Sistine towers
where pigments paint my puzzled face.
Why call me to divine commission,
as if I am the King’s magician,
to turn blank skies to holy vision;
oblivious to time and space?
I flee to hills of alabaster,
where ancient gods sleep in soft stone;
there gaze at dawn from fields of aster,
in sunlit clouds, behold a throne!
Benign, God glows in grace and glory,
his finger tracing allegory,
on clear blue skies creation’s story
His vision of the towers shone.
With passion’s pulse I paint the towers
as form and color mold blank sky;
a tempest tethered endless hours
to paint the vision or to die.
Though my flesh and bones are aching,
for beauty’s cause the world forsaking,
for splendor by His love creating
and as I paint I sing and cry.
After Swinburne
g.KayeNaegele 4/18/17, edited 11/11/21 A/N: Book by Irving Stone 1961, movie titled above 1965 about Michelangelo Buonarotti.
DR. JEKYLL and MR. HYDE
An ancient curse has chained me to a fool,
confined to suffer his self-righteous path.
Propriety, adherence to strict rule,
the bane of my repression raises wrath.
Freedom drenched in instinct my desire,
my impulses displayed in brash array.
A bold and tasty tart to light my fire,
to crush an obstacle would make my day,
Slyly I suggest those secret byways
where pleasure yields unusual delight,
tempting thrills on hedonistic highways
down alleys dark where flesh is sold by night.
Stunned to grasp his soul is bound to evil,
the doctor suffers devastating strife;
his psyche and behavior in upheaval
he seeks to separate Hyde from his life.
He mixes steaming potions in his lair,
dreaming science holds the healing key,
but Hyde emerges with excited flare
and he controls the chain now that he’s free.
Dragged to sights demonic, Jekyll’s shattered,
constrained to sow despicable despair.
He begs to find himself but he is battered.
Now both lie dead upon a London square.
If knowledge of a tree of good and evil
is causing human suffering and strife
and decreed by divinity primeval,
we’re bound to pay a price in hell or life.
g.KayeNaegele 6/ 8/18, edited 19/12/21 A/N: Genesis 2:17
Robert Louis Stevenson, novella 1886
Movie, 1941
Kaye, thank you for your magnificent poetic contribution to this challenge. Your poems shine and the wonder or your exquisite words has drawn me to a couple of films I haven’t had the privilege of viewing.
Thank you very much Susan. I had spent young years enchanted with classic literature; and when later, I saw classic cinema I was amazed by the expansion and combination of the art in both modes; literature, theater, acting, directing, scriptwriting, cinematography, set directing, costumes, etc. The combination of art types made me feel that poetry should be added to that artistic list. I had a mentor on the AP site who taught PhD classic poetry, and she suggested the idea, for students, that a book of “poetic cliffnotes for classic literature and cinema” would be a welcomed addition for students. I could not find a way to accomplish what she suggested, and when I saw this contest, I thought perhaps someone here might be interested in such a project. There are so many excellent poems in this contest that relate to the entire issue. At any rate, thank you for creating a space for poets who wish to poeticize cinema. Regards and thank you again. PS: They were all award winning movies! Perhaps you would enjoy them.
The Seventh Seal
My master on a game of chess
Has staked his life – and mine, no less –
His lady’s and yet others’ too.
It was the best that he could do.
For Death the game which now is played
A mandatory contest made.
There was no choice. My noble lord
Must meet him at the chequerboard.
And if by chance or lack of skill
Death’s strategy and moves go ill
And Death checkmated must admit
That he has had the worst of it,
We know that he will not renege
But spare us from this deadly plague.
For even should that come to be
We win but temporarily.
For if we come through this alive
Then Death will make it best of five
Or best of nine or eight-one,
Until we lose and must be gone
Over the hills, a tragic band,
Dancing and reeling hand in hand,
While those who this time watch and stare
Wait for their turn to travel there.
Morris, when I read your poem I felt like I was reading Andrew Marvell! I don’t know if he’s an influence of yours or if it was coincidence. It was so like his style.
Anyway, loved reading it and thought it was very well crafted.
Hi Gary
Thanks very much – and you’re right. It’s not a coincidence. Marvell is a great favourite of mine, especially “To his coy mistress” and “Bermudas”.
Lust for Life
I writhe on a bed of confusion,
recalling traumatic details,
confined I receive a transfusion,
that tethers my tempests to veils.
My love was rejected as frightful.
No woman could bear my excess.
The whispers of neighbors were spiteful,
my habits evoking distress.
From summits of sundry emotions
my head was a haven of schemes;
then plunging to odd ebon oceans,
’twas lust in my dreams.
So thrusting my passion to painting,
that beauty would glow in clear light,
my zest overcame to near fainting,
by lantern that burned day and night.
I drew in the workshops with weavers,
we gathered by fire to share;
at harvests collected by heavers,
their flesh etched by wear.
The earth in Arles shone ‘neath the sunlight,
its colors absorbed by my soul;
my brushes a storm seeking foresight,
with vision of beauty my goal.
A steamengine stripped of direction,
relinquishing self as I race,
till I look at the mirror’s reflection,
’tis blood that I face.
Poor Theo sits sad with devotion,
good news is the painting that sold,
but I’m back in the odd ebon ocean
and flooded by lust’s frenzied hold.
g.KayeNaegele 4/1/19, edit 3/28/22
A/N: 1935 “Lust for Life” novel by Irving Stone, 1956 movie “Lust for Life” and letters to Theo
I thought so. Andrew Marvell is also a favourite of mine. He has a very distinctive voice that appeals to me. I like the two poems you mentioned and ”The Garden’ amongst others.
THE SEVENTH SEAL – The Black Plague, Crusades and the
Silence of God, REV 8.1
“Why hast Thou so abandoned me
though I repent and worship Thee”,
sobbed the wounded soldier to the skies.
“These wars persist to wax and wane,
a promised cross in name to gain,
yet only silence speaks unto my cries.”
The silence reigned around the bay,
on Nordic rock in mist they lay;
the trusted squire and his noble knight.
He glanced upon a rocky rim.
The ‘hooded one’ had followed him
across depleted desert sands in flight.
The knight drew close to speak to Death,
his words to wager his last breath,
with skill to best him in a game of chess.
The Reaper’s lips betrayed a grin,
“a game of chess, your breath to win”
and with a flourish flaunted his finesse.
Through forests on a shaded trail,
dark shadows loomed an eerie veil,
upon the village nestled in tall trees.
There crept along worm wooden carts,
within stacked broken body parts,
as tales of terror trembled through the breeze.
Why hast Thou so abandoned these,
who begged for mercy on their knees,
lamenting for salvation to the skies.
Redemption at death’s door is vague,
both saint and sinner sleep in plague,
yet only silence speaks to their demise.
“Oh God, why won’t you answer me,
your silence mocks reality.”
cried the dying knight unto the skies.
But standing near, the hand of Death,
killed the king, the knight’s last breath,
and dragged him up the hill to silent skies.
g.EveKaye 2/4/16 edited 10/4/21
1957 Movie written and directed by Ingmar Bergman
The Theme of Schindler’s List
When seeing all the faces fading from my passing days
Names my twilight can’t remember, names I thought would live forever,
Only now in dreams they come alive
They’re gone beyond this world yet living still
Gone beyond this world yet living still
And I one day will fade in mist and yet be living still
Joining those who rose before me, seeing name and face together,
Meeting some I’ve never met before
For heaven is the dream where mists are clear
Heaven is the dream where mists are clear
I recently heard the theme song from the movie Schindler’s List again. I thought of people fading from memory and the sadness of that forgetting, perhaps only remembered in snippets of dream. We will follow that historic progression soon enough, forgotten by a spinning world. Yet there is a time in the future of all believers when we will live in heaven, intact and clear. There we will meet new people, reacquaint with lost memories, and enjoy clear, perfected minds. This poem fits the theme of the song, which you would notice if you read the poem with Itzhak Perlman’s violin playing in the background.
Wow! and at a time in place. Just so radiant.
Dear Kathy,
I have a dear cousin, Kathy, who enjoys my poetry. If you read this poem with Perlman’s violin playing the words and music fit very well together. Thank you for reading. Tom
May
Rain, beclouded skies are dun unfolding.
Every billow roared as minutes before.
Sends billow’s roar, devours as tempest sways.
Listen… to the storm.
Reeling waves come, devours beating thine heart.
Leaning when clouds come nearer, cling to play.
Shallow out stretch, thunder roars awaken.
Listen to the storm.
Ripple shout out at that moon, its stillness.
Under deep sea, waves, wind face of the moon.
Unruly sun, morning sea blooms surround.
Sends the passive drums.
Peering went, rage played emblazoned skies bright.
Sunset weeps, leaves shore.
Based on the novel The Ghost of Captain Gregg and Mrs. Muir. Chicago, 1945). By R.A. Dick.
Poem inspired by Reservoir Dogs
(Mr) Orange in a rendez-vous bleeding,
Bullet wound, (Mr) Blonde acts like’ts breakfast
time, talks chill-ass dialogue.
When you get used to cynical talk,
Always with jokes and an aura of cool,
You do so at times when it’s least best.
Even the caring and smart White (Mr) who
Saves Orange, scoffs at Blonde – too chill
After a diamond heist too red.
One must admire (Mr) Pink’s lines which
The characters hate. “I wanna survive!”
His dialogue is a natural joke.
(Definitely not as emotional and beautiful as other comments here. Wow. I’m impressed)