An Introduction to Poetic Cinematography

When something is called poetic—a sunset, the moon, a pile of corn husks on a kitchen table with the breeze from a window cracked open, murmuring at their silk—what’s meant is that there’s an idiosyncratic beauty to an object in a moment: that of an undeniable image. During “Poetic Cinematography: A Workshop on Image,” we worked to identify these moments and write the images that emerged from them. To do so we considered the kinship that exists between poetry and film. Both rely, above all, on the supremacy of the image. This notion is what helps differentiate poetry from fiction and nonfiction, in which narrative and character are the foundational elements. The poem is a disruption of narrative and has a higher calling; it must make emotional rather than just rational sense. As Carl Phillips has written, “every poem is in part a record of an engagement between our conscious and unconscious selves—which is why the writing of poetry can be so dangerous.” The poem is not only a practice, that of concerted time and effort, it’s also a way of passing through the membrane of the self, while remaining an excavation of that same self. Hence the danger alluded to by Phillips. 

I was fortunate to have an uncle who introduced me to film in a serious way. He explained framing, cross-cutting, focus, and dissolves. During a Nor’easter he showed me The Godfather Trilogy chronologically on LaserDisc. He took me to a screening of Citizen Kane in Hartford. I got to see it in a theater and learn about deep focus, in which camera shots keep the background, foreground, and middle ground in focus. Thus, when I was twelve, I wanted to be a cinematographer—that was the first thing I ever wanted to be. Sounds pretentious, I know, and I was too embarrassed by such a ridiculous ambition to ever express it to anyone. 

Every poet needs a method, a catalyst for transforming water into words. With time, with practice, poets gain innumerable methods, like growing additional arms and fingers for added dexterity. For me, the craft of poetry is akin to film; it’s one of my extra limbs. I want to think, create, and draft with images in mind. I want to write scenes. I want to establish tone through setting, and character through voice. Most importantly, I’m fascinated by the way films create tension, slowing down or speeding up, braiding narratives (past and present), finding resolution or dissolving completely, leaving questions unanswered: a narrative left open to interpretation. Poetry is not interested in resolution, but in reckoning. 

I offer two exercises to explore poetic cinematography. The first helps us practice seeing like poets. Watch the opening sequence of a film: intriguing options include Inglorious Basterds, 8 ½, La Dolce Vita, Solaris, or La Pointe Courte, but any engaging sequence could be used. Watch like a poet, considering the specific imagery used, the way it’s stacked or evolves, the light, framing, and transitions between scenes. Tarantino’s Basterds is a great option because it builds and manages speed and tension in an exquisite way, and that’s precisely what a poem must do. It’s also structured very deliberately and was used in a workshop led by Bianca Lynn Spriggs, in which we discussed the beginning of the film.

The second exercise uses music videos to engage multiple senses, connecting image with sound. I’ve employed a lot of different videos for this, but my favorites include LCD Soundsystem’s Oh Baby and Björk’s All Is Full of Love. Watch the video once with the sound on and make notes about striking images: think about what the narrative for the video could be. Then watch the video a second time with the sound off. Eschew any narrative this second time, focus on the images only, and create a text to accompany them. Using your notes, create a soundtrack. Think of the video playing behind your reading, each accompanying the other, hand in hand. You might even record yourself reading and then play it back over the video. Finally, consider what a music video might look like for certain poems, like “My Life in Peaches” by Adrienne Su, or “Purple Bathing Suit” by Louise Glück.

In Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum, Vermeer’s milkmaid pours endlessly from her jug. For as long as she pours “the World hasn’t earned / the world’s end.” What’s she pouring if not time; the dedication and attention of the artist (and poet); time in the endurance of art. It’d be impossible for the world to end when such a painting persists. It’s impossible to predict what images might endure. Some will though—some will.