Poems, Stories, Words and You | Short Poem Film

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Videography

Spoken Word Film

A 4min 31 sec poetry film. The following film was made to explore my videography / direction / editing skills. The film was a collaboration project with a 19 year old writer Ishita Jethwa, conveying a love poem performing it herself in the film. The entire process from shooting to exporting the final cut took 2 days. The film is shot on Oneplus 7.

'POEMS, STORIES, WORDS AND YOU'

Full stops, commas, exclamation marks, ellipses, but never a question mark.
Love, hate, anger, fights, but never a doubt.
Poems, stories, words and you.

The incomplete story that I worked on for days reads you. The poem that doesn't rhyme recites you.
The book lying on my shelf, it's covers gathering dust, and the withered rose between the pages, still smells of you.
You're the rain, the beauty of nature, and us is the smell of wet land everyone cherishes.

Harry died just after 09 days of Emma's death, and Romeo and Juliet made love a beautiful tragic story, rather a beautiful tragic feeling, perhaps trouble. Layla and Majnun, heer and ranjha. All love stories, all tragedies. Even the proud Mr. Darcy bent down and said, " You must know.. surely, you must know it was all for you."

"You've bewitched me, body and soul and I love you", he had said.. Not only the classics and tragedies, love is for sure the sweet poison Meera drank. Or the wait that seemed worth for Sabri. Oh wait!
Do you notice it's all one and the same ? If it ends happy, then it's not probably the end. It'll have a twist, a sequel perhaps and then finally the end is death. In stories, they just show thorns. Never a rose, never the smell of it.
I write love. You and me. Us. Love. And I leave it incomplete.

I'm Cinderella, I don't let the clock strike 12 in my story, and I keep dancing with you. "To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love." I'm hazel. And I stay with my Gus. And I tell him "There's no fault. Neither in our stars, nor in us"
There is a poem, it's stuck in my throat, it's titled love, and I don't speak it out. 'Cause if I do, chances exist of my brown eyed man leaving me.

Stories, incomplete, yet beautiful, Poems, not rhymed, unorganised, yet enchanting, book unread gathering dust, metaphors not understood, the words I'm speaking, the ones that echo us, and you hearing me, understanding the word I'm trying to talk about. You, there among this crowd, stop blushing. You know how Beautiful incomplete stories are, don't you? Where the end is decided by the readers, each with an end different than the previous, endings mesmerizing like the sunset where the sun sets in the sea, and they finally become one. And we're no Romeo and Juliet. Trust me, there's no story of love and faith, as of this imperfection and her brown eyed man.