Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Self-examination

This is the last outrage, what women do
in secret, slipping their fingers under bras or nightgowns
on wild, moon-driven nights, needing to true
the circle of their breasts, wanting to lunge
below desire, beneath arousal and beyond
the sweet milk-happiness of feeding children
to find the nuclear godawful contraband
their bodies might be hiding—the refrain
danger, danger, singing in their minds.

At dusk I slip into a pew, enthralled,
alert, combing through the week to find
what might destroy me, to send it away.
Lawyer, accused, bent to root out scandal,
my hands judging. And also, maybe guilty.

Poetry

John the Baptist at a country tent meeting, Jesus comes

Can you tell me what to want now? I can’t
go on, no turning back. We’d sing, “Jesus
on the main line, tell him what you want. Just
call him up, tell him what you want, what you want.”
But these six months, they came to me, I tell you—
tire tracks and footsteps flattened the grass ’round
the green tent—my words made such sound
toward the crowd—they bent, repented. But I knew
I was nothing, I just stalled in the river’s flow.
I waited for you, tensed as a dog’s hind leg
crouching before bread crusts and melon rinds.
Miz Black yowls “Call him up, call him up now!”
But you’re here, and I’m blown, a cattail’s sag,
I am birds dispersed—pepper in the wind.
Film

There Will Be Blood

I often tell screenwriting students not to avoid the difficult scene. By “difficult scene” I mean one involving a serious confrontation, a declaration of love or infidelity, or a confession of sin or weakness. These are scenes that lesser writers try to work around, since they are so difficult to write. But these scenes are the cornerstones of a meaningful story.
Film

No Country for Old Men

Joel and Ethan Coen accomplish what Cormac McCarthy set out to do in his bombastic 2005 novel No Country for Old Men. The movie by the same name is a portrait of the moral void of post-Vietnam America (it’s set in 1980). The title, which implies a nostalgia for vanished old-world values, is taken from Yeats’s poem “Sailing to Byzantium.”
Poetry

Stone work

I know the one I want when I find it.
Turning them over, like tortoises,
rubbing their ridged underbellies, their curves,
their pocked histories of love and grief,

I palm the one that speaks my other name,
the one whom I become this still moment,
lead-light, soft as chalk, right as spring
after weeks of needling sleet, the dumb tomb.

I run my tongue along its edges, taste
the sharp consonants, the gush of vowel,
the salt that grits the honest surface,
telling its years in the still pool of tears.

A stone in a heart made of sorrow,
a node in a kidney (gorgeous agony),
a missile thrown to break the martyr’s skull,
a stranger at the gates of the body’s love.

I press it down hard in the good dirt
next to the one I loved best yesterday,
assembling the poem, stone by sudden stone,
faithful as flesh to its house of bone.