Man I'm so tired of working and not sleeping and not running enough and sitting in restaurants and working and sitting in restaurants and working and working all night long. I feel like...hey, here he comes now! All the way from the Seventh Seal, ladies and gentlemen, it's--
(XIII)
Wait, Rider
I chose
My battles
He -- their end
His flag
A rose
The field commands
His crown
The sky
The reins -- clutched
In his hands
Before him
Rises majesty
Beneath -- the bones
Abound -- above
Wait, Rider --
Comes the cry
The hooves
Crush out
2 comments:
Bergman always needed to get laid BIGTIME. Drippy Droopy low light high latitudes + clinched moralities
made Simone de B. try to lose weight--and perhaps, a lot more. So many of his films almost have an intell.campiness about them, as the years roll on (my years).
The poem however (ditch the pic), stands by itself; given the film cue, I thought of a horseman with a red flag, riding down the hill at the tail end of "Ran" and his words--your poem--incredible coming out as hooves jarred head.
Leave the pic and let the poem; doesn't matter its genesis.
Love,
D
Hey, I was just wondering how you were! Yeah, I'd rather get my Bergman filtered thru Woody Allen, or Mel Brooks, even better. Never quite got Allen's veneration of Bergman, but the ending of Love and Death--just thinking about it makes me laugh. (Thanks for nice poem words.)
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