Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

On silence

The eleventh degree of humility is concerned with the manner of speech . . .”
                 Chapter 7, St. Benedict’s Rule

Speak little, speak low,
new truths I do not know,

I the she who’s ever
talking, always and not ever

listening for the quiet voice
teaching me that choice

isn’t to obey my silly heart.
Now only do I start

to hear Your blessed name
pattered by the rain,

sung by the rising sun,
uttered as I run

with each breathing cell
of my soul’s singing shell,

these limbs I love
by which I move

closer, close to You.
The body speaks true:

what my tongue wants most
the silence of the host.



















Film

Unglued

Neil Jordan’s The Brave One has a lacerating opening section. Erica Bain (Jodie Foster) is a New York disc jockey who dedicates her radio show to the neglected or vanishing splendors of the city she adores. One evening she and her fiancé (Naveen Andrews, of TV’s Lost) are mugged while walking their dog in Central Park; he’s killed and she winds up in a coma.
Poetry

Euonymus Alatus

Outside my window, the bushes have turned, redder
than any fire, and the sky is the same blue Giotto
used for Mary’s robes. My mother says, if she still
had a house, she’d plant one or two of these bushes,
and I love how she’s still thinking about gardening,
as if she were in the middle of the story, even though
we both know, she’s at the end, the last few pages. Down
in the meadow, the goldenrod’s gone from cadmium
yellow to a feathery beige, the ghost of itself. Mother,
too, fades away, skin thin as the tissue stuffed
up her sleeve. The scars on her stomach
itch and burn, but inside, she’s still the girl
who loved to turn cartwheels, the woman
whose best days were on fairways and putting greens.
On television, we watch California go up in smoke,
flames leapfrogging ridge to ridge. Here, these leaves
release a shower of scarlet feathers, as everything starts
to let go. Oh, how this world burns and burns us,
yet we are not consumed.
Poetry

Listen,

There is nothing new here.
Rain falls on closed peonies.
There is nothing new.

Yesterday my son brought me honeysuckle
from the garden.
Today his hair smells of citrus.

But that’s all,
nothing more,
not so much as a grain of salt on the tongue,
only rain falling on peonies
that are closed.



Film

Mob culture

“I’m not a fan of heist movies, where the mechanics of the heist are lovingly detailed. But criminality and people who live in a state of perpetual transgressionthat is interesting to me.”