poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:030

RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Christmas without Norman
Bergmanís Island
A Dark Renaissance

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Christmas without Norman

Last summer the young evergreen got knocked over by the lawn tractor. Grew back toward the sun in a great S curve. A shame to cut it. It grew so hard to live But I did. Tossed it on the fire where I was burning brush. Erupted in a great geyser of red flame that even the rain couldnít quench. The cedar tree smelled like Christmas. Frankincense and myrrh holly and cinnamon so sweet so nice so Christmas without Norman Rockwell

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:030





Bergmanís Island 

He must have known, must have had whispers of impending mortality. Else why would he have allowed the documentary to be filmed at his Faro island home in the Baltic? More reclusive than a hermit crab, here like one of his flowing films, his work, fears, regrets surged out as the sea just beyond his windows. The sea, power, mind, dark dark consciousness. The conversation, like some Swedish Baron surveying the coming horde, the end, rolled out as a16 mm projector. The Seventh Seal, and in his eyes the camera captured Bocklinís Isle of the Dead. Broke his life down into pieces, reflection of the broken lives that permeated his work, the thoughts that god should not be discussed, rather the holiness in man. And the island, carved by a giantís fist from Baltic rock, set like some brooding medieval fortress in the black sea, crags and turrets, savage waterfalls spilling from cliff face into the fathomless sea, the dark swell of consciousness oozing from the beach and the fatted land. These are stark scenes fit for a Sybilís eye, monstrous myth waiting to be plumbed by a master of human starkness. Revealed in the intimate conversation caressed by a loving camera: death here, illness, betrayal, bleakness, insanity all on an island mind microcosm that bespoke angels and saints, dragons and prophets, devils and humans etched by the mysterious, vegetative smell of eternity. The moment when he said that Ingrid canít not be; I can feel her presence, I canít feel her if she doesnít exist, can I? There at the end of the play, indifferent to man, alive in a world of ghosts, willing prisoner of his own oeuvre.

poetryrepairs #235 v17.03:030





A Dark Renaissance 

A pooling of wet leaves remind me, clumped there in summerís autumn languor, despite all this late August butterscotch light, that it is the dark, the dark, that returns soon which never left. No Renaissance maidens walk in the sun. None remain. If there were, they would say the shadows of the leaves is dark enough for me. History is dark. Today is dark. No matter how much one seeks the light, drinks it in, let the summer sun bake skin to a tanned sienna, dream of green iguanas basking in the lightó the universe expands outward flung by unknown dark particles. Melodies of light never the dominant tune, the vibrations of the sable cello give song to those maidens walking in stubbled fields where crows domino about and fiddle the same earth theme on wet, beating wings. History is dark. Pages written in black ink. The maidens themselves now part of concealed stone, brunette song long faded, they could not dip finger in nightís inkwell, write of the dark time like a court fool grinning at the king. They know the dark. As before. As now. Long after the perishing expiration date.




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RALPH MONDAY : 'Bergman's Island' & Other Poems
Christmas without Norman
Bergmanís Island
A Dark Renaissance


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