Bergman's Children Poem by Percy Dovetonsils

First of all,
he's not Ingrid Bergman,
the other, impossibly beautiful,
Swede.

Ingmar's
the not beautiful
Swede
whose father
shut him
in closets
to punish him
and whose films
came out of that
darkness,
and fear,
and suspense,
and claustrophobia.

Ingmar's the one
who directed
a series
of impossibly beautiful
Swedes:
Livs and Bibis and Ingrids,
and made love to them
and sometimes married them,
briefly,
aswell.

Ingmar's the one
who remained
always in touch
with his childhood fears
yet was so indifferent
to his 8 children
by 6 different women,
thus realizing
their worst
childhood fears,

that only 2
came
to his funeral
and who became
in their turn
artists:actors
and directors
and writers
and one airline pilot.

Fortunately,
we are not
Bergman's children,
except in the sense
that he becomes
our father,
locking us up
in a dark closet
with our terrors
and suspense
and claustrophobia
and lust and hatred
and jealousy
and anger and confusion
and fog and groping
and stumbling
and sense of betrayal
and regret and loss
and despair
and hope
and revelation
and clarity
and understanding
and wisdom
and love
and joy
and shadows
and light

whenever
we watch
his films.