Dream Horse Press
Keith Montesano's Scoring the Silent Film
Praise for Scoring the Silent Film
In each poem in Scoring the Silent Film, Keith Montesano uses a peripheral character in a film by such varied directors as Michael Haneke, Steven Spielberg, Wes Craven and Ang Lee to draw a deeper meaning from a fleeting scene. The poems make time stopin the middle of madness, violence, actionlong enough for us to realize how much a human life is worth. In doing so, Montesano turns the rich history of film into brilliant, unforgettable poems.
Jesse Lee Kercheval
"Though the poems in this ambitious collection spring from the authors abiding love of movies, their obsession is ultimately with our humanity. Violenceboth realistic and fantasticis ever-present, and emerging from the looming shadow of that violence are urgent meditations on empathy, inaction, fear, faith, and guilt. Keith Montesano has mingled the mediums of film and poetry and given us something utterly new. Scoring the Silent Film unspools before us, a poetic tour-de-force, mesmerizing and shot through with light."
"In The personas found in Keith Montesanos Scoring the Silent Film are in the voices of victims, neighbors, friends, and other shattered lives, some of who survive wearing long scars of their traumas. And yet despite these harrowing circumstances, Montesano's interpretations of characters are rendered with a profound sense of empathy as he holds the lens of his poetic gifts up close to the turbulent landscape of cinema violence, and shows us that there is still the possibility of blossoms among the ash." Oliver de la Paz
About the Author: Keith Montesano is the author of the poetry collection Ghost Lights (Dream Horse Press, 2010). He recently earned his PhD in English and creative writing from Binghamton University, and currently lives in New York with his wife. Find more at www.keithmontesano.com
From Scoring the Silent Film:
The Author as Landlord Who Finds Majids Body an Hour After Hes Slit His Throat in CachéAfter the film by Michael Haneke
Lord, the blood.
There is no blessing for this. Black
is the color, & the gasoline I smell with this ending
exhaust, colorless, billowing in, the one curtain limp
& convulsing after seconds. I saw him rarely, slow walk
out the door, his face saying nothing. If what I can sense
tells me Im alive, I dont know what I would choose.
The blade fell from his hand. Blood scythes the jambs.
They say not to touch anything, & with a towel over
my face, who to call first? No one can know about
closed doors. No one will know what happened here.
If we believe the movies: his ghost wavered, wrenched
from his body, plans never to be made, & maybe
a son to make decisions, to come up with money, time
for something proper, some incessant new beginning.
Copyright © 2013 Keith Montesano