Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Olin Lake

Behind us, the channel half-clogged
by bullhead lilies slips back
into the smoke of yellow tamaracks
clouding the shore and we glide
on the silk of a dream so deep, herring
break the surface from eighty feet below.

I am this hand skimming the water.
I am these eyes dazzled by light.

I am you whom I loved
before the seas were parted.

I am in the creak of wood,
old harmony of oars.





Poetry

"This is my blood of the covenant"

There is no damping of betrayal’s guilt,
The little deeds of virtue cannot serve;
They niggle at the structures time has built,
Unwilling to admit what they deserve.
Even the grasping at the words of grace:
"Come unto me, and I will give you rest,”
Become the tempter’s taunt, thrown in your face,
Counting betrayals of this fair behest.
And still it comes, this welcome to the feast,
Albeit shadowed with the guilt and sin;
Strange Love reminds that this is freedom’s test,
And given so, the grace must follow in.
So there is damping of betrayal’s guilt,
On Calvary, when Covenant blood was spilt.
Film

The Yellow Handkerchief

Set in rural Louisiana, Udayan Prasad’s tender, affecting road picture The Yellow Handker chief combines a coming-of-age narrative with the tale of a man driven to seek the salvation he believes he no longer deserves.