Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Lightening

That bones will brittle
Is my truth,
And that all little
Cells, forsooth,

Will fail and fall,
And falling, leave
My brain’s recall.
So I receive

Lightness of being,
And a beginning
Of agreeing
With this thinning.

So long, lucidity.
Welcome, life’s
Gentle finality—
Its gradual knife.

Forgive the cells
That float and fly.
They’ve done so well,
And so have I.







Film

Paris forever

The city of lights would seem the perfect setting for a compilation of 18 short films, each five to eight minutes long, about love and passion.
Poetry

A very little thing

A very little thing is rolling
down the street at dawn,
some little yellow thing, a lemon,
rolling down the center
of the street from the little
grove just up the hill.

Has the cold of the morning
snapped its hold upon the tree?
Or did someone toss it, carelessly,
to see it mind its little business,
bundling down the little street?

Will it fall in the little creek
at the bottom and ride
the current to the sea?
Will it float there—a lemon buoy,
a yellow bobber, a little
sour island on the salt rim
of the little world?



Poetry

Dream in Sighisoara, Romania

in the train station at last asleep
(all gone down to grays—sky

—uniforms—the platform itself
and farmers back from the war

who won’t know their fields)—1943
—a gypsy father reaches sure to touch

his daughter’s face (where is she—
that turn in the trees)—bine bine—

bine copil—his fingers recalling
some landscape lost now to the dark—







Poetry

Trespassing the labyrinth

They will not see me, living out of sight down the hill,
the white-robed army of monks at prayer,
the makers of incense and beds and meals
with the smell of God about them.

They might feel me step into their pilgrimage, balancing
between the jagged and the smooth stones,
paying homage to the rock borders that turn
me closer in, farther out, maddeningly
away from the center.

This is no way to live a life.
How many times have they made these very turns
in their cloister, no labyrinth to guide them
but only the vague inner nudge?

It is the place where tortuous and torturous merge.
I take half an hour; they use half their lives.
And for what? A pile of rocks in the center,
a single life well lived?

The question, maybe, gives us pause.
It does not stop that inexorable pull,
like undertow sent to immolate a swimmer
beneath the waves,

or the ineffable peace that spreads with every step.