Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Necessities

My house burned down a month ago, so today
I walked to the bookstore and bought myself
a dictionary, a Bible, and a calendar.

What else does one need, really? For Malvolio,
in that dark cell, it was candle, paper, and ink.
That was his sacred trinity by which he could
be sane again—or at least be proven so.

Me, I need to make sure of the meanings
of words, then to invest them with holiness,
and then to know when I might use them
(or utilize them, as an administrator would say).

On Monday, February 2, I plan to employ perspicacious.
Then, on Easter, resurrection is scheduled
for its grand debut. And so on. I’m saving horror
for Halloween, and thanksgiving for Thanksgiving.

Among poets of old, this was known as decorum.
Proper words in proper places. On the anniversary
of the fire, I will simply say, damn.







Poetry

Borgund Stave Church, midsummer

Listen, you cannot hear the small bells
rung for mass, or smell the pungent
incense. No one is selling tickets at this hour;
nothing is open here at the earth’s edge
where sheep block the road, and torrents
pour from the stony mountain. Above
the shrouded dead, tar-soaked timbers
with their pitched roofs sky-dive bravely
toward the stratosphere. Jet-lagged,
we wake to a world spilled open
into white and cloudless sky.

Flowers, yellow, purple, white, the one
called “stepmother,” crouch like pansies
underneath the gallery floor. All day
we have been driving near the sound of water,
the cry of unfamiliar birds. Now we are tired.
Your foot, then mine, tests the sagging steps
for rot; your eye, then mine, pries through
the worn keyhole. Both of us think
we will never be back. Your hand, then mine,
refrains from touching the carved lintel
with its snakes and dragons out of fear
it might dissolve, and like so many things,
our faces flushed, our bodies warm from walking,
just disappear into thin air.

Film

Julie and Julia

The title of Nora Ephron’s Julie and Julia equalizes its two plots: there is one about how Julia Child came to publish Mastering the Art of French Cooking and thereby alter the American palate, and there is one about Julie Powell’s efforts four decades later to cook her way through Child’s cookbook. But in truth these stories aren’t remotely on the same footing.
Poetry

Gift

                —after Czeslaw Milosz

A morning so still.
Rain ended while I slept.
Light in the east awakened me.
A Carolina wren began his “Teakettle” song.
By my study window I drank tea, and read.
The first Beatitude spoke to me,
“Blessed are the poor in spirit” being everything
                                               I need to know.
There was nothing on earth I could not let go.
Solitude held and sustained me,
Emptiness a companion I walk beside.
Looking out, I see the clearing sky.