Wednesday, 25 June 2014

Distant frights And distant voices....



photo & poem © Jesús Montero 

I have just finished writing the screenplay adaptation of my play THE FOUR SEASONS which is set during the Spanish civil war and 
just a few hours ago, I came across a poem I wrote quite a long time ago.

I find it fascinating how things we may have written quite a while back, seem to seep through the cracks of our subconscious and land our present.

Reading the poem this afternoon, I  can clearly see how it mirrors the oppressing world of my characters. 

************************

GROUND ZERO + 8


Distant frights
And distant voices
Distant whispers
Of a blurred past.

Sudden memories
All far too present.

Distant whispers
That cannot last.

Distant distance.

But distant
Not enough.

Horrid moments.
Caught.
Like frozen.

As if watched
Under a strobe light.

************************

Now, I had to share this picture with you.

I took this image as I was printing the rough first draft of the screenplay. 
I did it at random, on my iPhone, not knowing what script page I was capturing at all.

Then, when I looked at the shot, upside down, I discovered something quite extraordinary, spooky actually. 



The script page is mostly blurred, apart from one single line of dialogue, spoken by ROSE, the main character. 

The line reads: 
How hard was that?

Of all 114 script pages and, of all dialogue lines, it had to be 'that' one: 
HOW HARD WAS THAT?

We all know 'how hard' it is to write a screenplay and somehow, ROSE was reminding me of it....
wasn't she?


Friday, 30 May 2014

I like words like...



Kalahari desert, South Africa. 

photo & poem © Jesús Montero


I like words like
Chocolate, Tequila
And Marabou.

Desert, Dessert
And Timbuktu.

Snowdrops, sunflowers
And cock-a-doodle-DO!

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

Saturday, 19 April 2014

How did Christmas Become Easter?

Notting Hill, London. 

photo & poem © Jesús Montero

How did Christmas
Become Easter?
Turning mince pies
Into hot cross buns?

How did the dying year blossom
With the bloom of a thousand trees?
Paving the way
For-one-more-wrinkle.

How did the hours
Roll into days,
Binding our past
In a cloud of daze?

photo & poem © Jesús Montero