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Latest video reviews

Lost Stream by Fiona Tinwei Lam

Vancouer-based poet Fiona Tinwei Lam recites a poem from her 2019 collection Odes & Laments. I found this animation by Quinn Kelly unexpectedly moving—especially when the flow of the creek is replaced by the flow of traffic on a divided highway. Uploaded late last year, the description reads:

A poetry video based on a poem about the city’s hidden and lost streams. Animation by Quinn Kelly. Narration by the poet Fiona Tinwei Lam. Audio-recording by Lileth Charlet. Recorded at CEDaR sound studio at the University of British Columbia. Sound design by Bill Hardman. Part of the Vancouver Poet Laureate’s City Poems Project 2022-2024.

There’s also a version with very elegant subtitling.

Ghosts as Cocoons by Wallace Stevens

A new film by Belgian artist and musician Marc Neys, AKA Swoon, deploying text-on-screen for a lesser-known poem by Wallace Stevens. Marc doesn’t make videopoems at anything like the rate he used to ten years ago, but it’s good to see that he hasn’t lost his touch! This one is in support of his latest album, Harmonium (for Wallace), which he calls, in part,

a tribute to the poetry of Wallace Stevens. This piano and keyboard-driven album invites listeners into 10 serene, introspective compositions where music and poetry intertwine seamlessly.

Each track on the album draws inspiration from a specific poem by Stevens, capturing the essence and depth of his literary work through nuanced and meditative compositions. With Harmonium (For Wallace), I pay homage to Stevens’ ability to evoke profound emotions and imagery, crafting a musical counterpart that is hopefully equally evocative.

Wallace Stevens’ poetry has always been a profound source of inspiration for me. This album is my way of honoring the beauty and complexity of his words.

Marc Neys has the distinction of having more videos in the Moving Poems archive than any other filmmaker. Browse the full collection here… or cut out the middleman and go straight to his Vimeo page.

No Apologies by Dee Hood

A videopoem addressing the political moment we find ourselves in by experimental video artist Dee Hood, a professor emerita at Ringling College of Art + Design in Sarasota, Florida.

It’s fascinating to me how didacticism, which might otherwise leach the poetry out of a poem on the page, can still hold lyrical power in a video, if paired with the right images and sounds: a good reason to reach for videopoetry rather than page-poetry when responding to current events.

[water] acknowledgement by Josh Corson

An author-made cine-poem (as he calls it) by Tampa, Florida-based writer and artist Josh Corson, “[water] acknowledgement stands witness to the history of phosphate mining in Florida.” It appears at the very end of TriQuarterly‘s Issue 167 (Winter & Spring 2025), where the description notes that

Corson’s editing and soundtrack pulse with hypnotic urgency. Cutting between images of storm water drainage, advertisements, archival footage, and aerial footage of industrialized landscapes or phosphate extraction, Corson’s pace evokes a racing heartbeat as indictments against companies like Mosaic accrue. At times, Corson superimposes images over one another, as if they’re various layers of mining sediment sifting to the surface of the frame. Fervent in its pace and messaging, [water] acknowledgement is a transfixing cinematic clarion call for environmental concern. 

The description also includes an announcement about changing editorship:

Issue #167 brings with it some exciting changes in the video essay and cinepoetry realm of TriQuarterly. As the year turns and the journal welcomes Jess Masi into the position of Managing Editor, Sarah Minor will step away from her role as video editor after six years of curating and writing about video works at the journal. Jon Bresland served as the inaugural editor of our now ten-year old video section, which boasts an archive of over a hundred carefully selected video works. Bresland was succeeded by Kristen Radtke, then Sarah Minor, and in 2025 writer and film critic Hannah Bonner will join the TQ team to take over curation of what is now the longest running video section at an American literary magazine. We look forward to seeing how Bonner shapes this section and invites readers and writers to the screen in years to come. In this issue we present works by Caitlin Lenz, Lee Hodge, and Josh Corson.

Read the rest, and then browse the rest of the issue. With poetry film forming a bit of a passing fad for some other major literatry magazines over the past 15 years, it’s great to see TriQuarterly maintaining its commitment to a video section, and publishing really important works like this one.

Grapefruit Parts by Sandra Louise Dyas and LeAnn Erickson

A second film by old friends Sandy Dyas and LeAnne Erickson for The Serendipity Project, which we introduced with their earlier video, fuze. In the description on Vimeo, Dyas notes, “This collaboration was inspired by Yoko Ono and the serendipity of chance. It is our second chance operation/collaboration, both were inspired by Yoko Ono and her book “Grapefruit”.”

As in fuze, Erickson’s selection of images and Dyas’s selection of sound clips do seem to be in conversation—an uncanny effect, which I think says as much about the nature of collaboration between seasoned artists who know what they’re doing as it does about the nature of videopoetry. One thinks of the famous quote by Louis Pasteur: “Chance favors the prepared mind.”

Most of us amateur video-makers quickly discover that random mixes of text, sound and images tend to result in little more than a vaguely poetic fog. One of the reasons that Dyas and Erickson don’t fall into that trap, I think, is because they deploy fairly limited vocabularies of images and words or phrases: poetry lives in rhythm and repetition. And viewers can be relied upon to fill in semantic gaps, because that’s basically what we’re doing all day long with snatches of overheard conversation and chance fragments of others’ lives, consciously or unconsciously looking for connective threads—and regularly stepping back to try to see larger patterns. Any good poet, whether for the page or the screen, understands this instinctively: you have to leave a certain number of gaps for the audience to fill or leap on their own. That’s how the poetry happens. And it’s definitely happening here.

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