Bava Minus 27

Though the IMDb would have it otherwise, Mario Bava actually left this world twenty-seven years ago today -- on April 25, 1980. In recognition of this anniversary, I thought it appropriate to post my poem "Mario Bava," which isn't featured in the Bava book but does appear with some of my other poetry in the current issue of the Manchester-based poetry zine THE UGLY TREE:

MARIO BAVA

Where emerald and amber intersect
When clock hands overlap
Dead fingers cut the Tarot deck
As guilt drips from the taps.

Pensive women, young and old,
Trace futures in the sand
And Vikings find lost brotherhood
Tattooed on warring hands.

Arabesques of living fog
Cavort in coloured light
A bullet soothes your favorite dog
Let Grandpa kiss goodnight.

You peer through a strobing window
At a white, encroaching face
And your phonograph it slows
To sing the colours out of space.

You weep and pray and shut your ears
To wailings from the cold
That confirm in bluest gooseflesh
The tales old wives have told.

The trick is to see through the fear
And find what they have not:
He hides in the glass of an unscraped mirror
In a so-called Schüfftan shot.

(c) 2006 Tim Lucas