Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Disconnect

in a pink shirt the reporter speaks
his voice ripe with excitement while
behind him the Wave crashes over
and over the same bodies flung
like broken sticks which in an instant
they have become bundled into
body bags bulging on the shredded sand
though when we return we’ll hear
from one survivor in a wheelchair
whom we glimpse smiling as the scene
shifts to a woman waltzing across
her kitchen dazzles as she holds high
a ziplock bag not large enough for bodies
no but fruit she says stays fresh for days.
Film

Torn web

If you found the first two installments of the Spider-Man series poetic, imaginative and impassioned, you’re likely to experience an unpleasant jolt at Spider-Man 3. The first two pictures were built on beautifully worked-out fantasy scenarios that operated as metaphors for the emotional development of the main character, Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire), aka Spider-Man.
Film

Between two worlds

It seems like yesterday that Indian-born director Mira Nair burst onto the international scene with Salaam Bombay! about the street children of that sprawling Asian city. In fact, it has been almost 20 years. During that time Nair has carved out an impressive career with such culturally sensitive films as Mississippi Masala, Kama Sutra and Monsoon Wedding.
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.