Julian Grey maakte deze bijzondere animatie op het gedicht ‘Forgetfulness’ van Billy Collins.


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

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The man with the beautiful eyes

Een korte film van Jonathan Hodgson naar Charles Bukowski’s gedicht ‘The man with the beautiful eyes’.

The Man With The Beautiful Eyes

When we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
(although there was no
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
They came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
from our hands.

Our parents had
told us:
” never go near that
so, of course,
we went.

We wondered if anybody
lived there.
Weeks went by and we
never saw

Then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house

It was a man’s
Then the screen
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked out.

He was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
He was about
He had a cigar
in his
needed a
His hair was
wild and
and he was
In undershirt
and pants
but his eyes
with brightness
and he said,
“hey, little
having a good
time, I

Then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the

We left,
went back to my
parents’ yard
and thought
about it.

Our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
a strong natural

Our parents
were ashamed
that they were
like that
thats why they
wanted us to stay

we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
We went back
many times
for many
but we never
or heard
the man

The shades were
as always
and it was

Then one day
as we came back from
we saw the

It had burned
there was nothing
just a smoldering
twisted black
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
drying out.

We went back to
my parents’ yard
and talked about
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
had killed the
because it was
all too
even the bamboo
forest had

They had been
afraid of
the man with the

we were afraid
all throughout our lives
things like that
would happen,
that nobody
to be
strong and
like that,
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to

Charles Bukowski

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Just as, after a point, Job cried out

Het post-apocalyptische gedicht ‘Just as, after a point, Job cried out’ van K.A. Hays werd door Emma Burghardt voorzien van een prachtige animatie.


The soil froze, cursing the weather. It turned a stoic face
to winter’s switchblade and brass knuckles

so that when the warm rain came, the soil said, Go on,
there’s no room for you now. Let the backyards

pool up, and the river pitch to the bridges, dragging
the bridges down. Now the billboards will become great

silent rafts so anyone can climb on them and look out,
saying, I would have done the same.

When the water covered the tree trunks and crept up,
the ground shrugged. See, it said. Now,

weather, do you understand? Soon,
there will be no resting place.

K.A. Hays

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Render, Render

Het gedicht ‘Render, Render’ van Thomas Lux werd door Jeff Saunders in een korte film gevat.


Boil it down: feet, skin, gristle,
bones, vertebrae, heart muscle, boil
it down, skim, and boil
again, dreams, history, add them and boil
again, boil and skim
in closed cauldrons, boil your horse, his hooves,
the runned-over dog you loved, the girl
by the pencil sharpener
who looked at you, looked away,
boil that for hours, render it
down, take more from the top as more settles to the bottom,
the heavier, the denser, throw in ache
and sperm, and a bead
of sweat that slid from your armpit to your waist
as you sat stiff-backed before a test, turn up
the fire, boil and skim, boil
some more, add a fever
and the virus that blinded an eye, now’s the time
to add guilt and fear, throw
logs on the fire, coal, gasoline, throw
two goldfish in the pot (their swim bladders
used for “clearing”), boil and boil, render
it down and distill,
that for which there is no
other use at all
, boil it down, down,
then stir it with rosewater, that
which is now one dense, fatty, scented red essence
which you smear on your lips
and go forth
to plant as many kisses upon the world
as the world can bear!

Thomas Lux

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Monika Umba maakte een animatie gebaseerd op Charles Bukowski’s gedicht ‘Bluebird’. Gelezen door Dean Stanton.


there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do

Charles Bukowski

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Old Astronauts

Een animatie van Emma Burghardt, gebaseerd op Tim Nolans gedicht ‘Old Astronauts’.

Old Astronauts

When they get together now—
they nod to one another—
don’t talk about the pitch-
black of airless space—
don’t want to remember
the dust of the Moon
in the treads of their boots—
They fall in bathrooms—
just like everyone else—
but from a greater height—
and before their heads
hit the tiled floor—
they float for awhile—
weightless—seeming to dance
at the end of a cord—
One of them found
Noah’s Ark—or is just
about to—mostly—they
remain dead silent—
Whatever they saw and felt—
lost for generations—it’s that
they were led to believe
they really could escape—
the pull—of the molten core—

Tim Nolan

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Fitter happier

Pablo Iranzo maakte deze korte film bij de song ‘Fitter happier’ van Radiohead.

fitter happier

fitter happier more productive
not drinking too much
regular exercise at the gym (3 days a week)
getting on better with your associate employee contemporaries
at ease
eating well (no more microwave dinners and saturated fats)
a patient better driver
a safer car (baby smiling in back seat)
sleeping well (no bad dreams)
no paranoia
careful to all animals (never washing spiders down the plughole)
keep in contact with old friends (enjoy a drink now and then)
will frequently check credit at (moral) bank (hole in wall)
favours for favours
fond but not in love
charity standing orders
on sundays ring road supermarket
(no killing moths or putting boiling water on the ants)
car wash (also on sundays)
no longer afraid of the dark
or midday shadows
nothing so ridiculously teenage and desperate
nothing so childish
at a better pace
slower and more calculated
no chance of escape
now self-employed
concerned (but powerless)
an empowered and informed member of society (pragmatism not idealism)
will not cry in public
less chance of illness
tires that grip in the wet (shot of baby strapped in back seat)
a good memory
still cries at a good film
still kisses with saliva
no longer empty and frantic
like a cat
tied to a stick
that’s driven into
frozen winter shit (the ability to laugh at weakness)
fitter, healthier and more productive
a pig
in a cage
on antibiotics

Thom Yorke – Radiohead

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Het gedicht ‘Insomniac’ van Sylvia Plath is voorzien van beeld en geluid door ‘chloerocks1201’.


The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole —
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments–the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue —
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Sylvia Plath

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Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91

Tom Jacobsen maakte een korte film gebaseerd op ‘Andrew Wyeth, Painter, Dies at 91’, een gedicht van L.S. Klatt.


A weathered barn on a hilltop; a nude woman
sprawled on the slope

A giant squid rises out of a hayfield, & the barn
is compassed in tentacles
then a cloud of ink.

A man with a fountain pen in his hand
& a pitchfork
in his back

walks the cow-path around the barn
& tells the beauty
on the hill

to step to it. It’s as if her freckled skin
is newly charcoaled
& the hayloft

a smokescreen. The cows can’t be heard for certain
within the inkblot
but deer

creep to the edge of the field on
delicate feet.

L.S. Klatt

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