Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

The angels

     (translated from the German by Terese Coe)

They all have tired mouths
and bright spirits without seams.
And a longing (as for sin)
runs sometimes through their dreams.

Each nearly resembles the others,
hushed among God’s flowers
like many, many stages
in His melody and power.

Only when spreading their wings
do they awake the wind,
as if God riffled the pages,
with broad sculptor’s hands,
of the dark book of beginning.





Poetry

The willful heart

What is this agitation now that I am old,
this pining for a svelte body, sinuous
as the vine embedded in words, a line
of lovers dancing to dream’s empty tune?

Flesh, in secret, raises a clamor,
quakes her soul with yearning
for consummation, the message so
rhythmical it masquerades as truth,

those old clichés of satisfaction.
Bargaining heart, your illusions
spit in the face of old age, tear
like treachery at the lessons of years.



Film

Loss and recovery

As an attempt to address the realities of post-9/11 trauma, Reign Over Me is so misbegotten that it trivializes the subject. Adam Sandler plays Charlie Fineman, who has retreated from his life after losing his wife and daughters in the attacks.
Poetry

God's radio

In Religious Ed a nun once told us,
“You should always make the sign of the cross
before and after you pray. The first gesture
opens God’s wavelength; the second shuts it off.”

I wonder if the sister knew how many nights
I would lie in bed, panicked, wide awake
unable to remember if I had signaled
“Roger and out.” Odds or evens—heaven
or hell. I crossed myself without stopping,
hoping to land on evens or at least to interrupt
the feed before memories of Linda Ursoni’s
blouse and her fully developed fifth grade breasts
bubbled forth from the back of my pubescent mind.

Even as an adult, I find myself playing
the same game, while hoping that someday
I might cross myself one last time and be done
with it, but the deep need to hide always follows—
in the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .



Poetry

Self-portrait

After four years, Michelangelo has reached the end,
and now Jonah, whom he has reserved for last,
dangles his bare feet over the Sistine’s void,
sharing his precarious aerie with a dead fish,
two cherubs and a vine. A marvel of foreshortening,
he reclines on his arm and eyes God, still arguing
petulantly that he is not the man to undertake
such a harebrained job, lacking both talent
and inclination. His fingers point in opposite
directions, one to the threat of Nineveh and Rome,
the other to the safety of Tarshish and Florence,
regarding his own death as a small price to pay
to make a point. Yet as the fresco dries to stone,
he gazes beyond the gap between his intractable
pique and God’s intractable grace, dumbfounded
at the resplendent vault arching above a city at peace.