Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Places I have rested

God saw everything that he made, and indeed, it was very good. . . .
And God rested on the seventh day. Genesis 1:31

I can rest any place, dear friend,
although I have my preferences, lairs

much visited. I rest in Seamus Heaney,
bog lover, prodigal who remembers home,

chaste as the pope in a pub, language
lush crowned king. In that miser

Emily Dickinson, who counts the night’s
small coins to see no word is overspent,

each berry pinched until it bleeds.
In Robert Hass soliloquizing on

swans, cats and blackberries,
caressing vowels for the long embrace.

In Die Meistersinger—six hours
of Germanic glory—a lot of culture

in sausage, beer, bony knees,
lederhosen and busty maids.

In Joe Turner, who invented light,
splashed it across the channel ships.

—I never knew the sun could breathe.
But I rest best in wild canaries

outside my monastery window, tiny
fallen suns, frantic out of orbit, flashing

a wilder yellow in search of their gods.























Film

Doubt

It is commonly assumed, and regularly taught, that the key difference between playwriting and screenwriting is that the former tells the bulk of its story with words (it is dialogue-driven), while the latter relies more heavily on images (it is camera-driven).
Poetry

Caught music

Aloft because chaos dances, elastic,
flowering. Generous, how impulse jumps—

kept lively. Melody nudges open—prospector,
questioning. Remember summer?

Tallying us, vireos, wings x-rayed yellow,
zeroed along bare cliffs. Drawn even from

graceless hollows—imagine—juncos, katydids,
luscious mango noons. Our passions

quickened. Rondos, serpentine: the unsung,
voiced with xylophones. Yodels. Zithers.







Film

Pride and Glory

A movie about a family of Irish cops—that sounds like one you’ve seen before. But Pride and Glory contains a few unfamiliar notes, and it rings truer than most movies about corruption in the police ranks.
Poetry

Incarnation

Suppose I scooped the whole sky in my hand,
I couldn’t hold it. Yet hearing a goldfinch,
I feel, well, yes, that tiny song might clench
the whole primordial rumpus of the wind.

I wonder if she felt the fearful flame
fly into her womb? What did she hear?
Or maybe when God enters time,
he’s quiet. Is the child in the manger
meek so He, who fills all place, won’t scare
us?
              After my mother’s death, I stood in darkness,
bereft and tiny on an ocean pier,
a spent coin. Night opened its purse
and flung me up, expanding toward the stars.

From what I know, I reason in reverse.