Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Film

Royal treatment

I never meant to burn any bridges,” Neil Young sings in “One of These Days” in Jonathan Demme’s movie Neil Young: Heart of Gold. “But I let some good things die.” Heart of Gold records Young’s two concerts at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium last year. The concerts marked the debut performance of songs featured on his Prairie Wind album.
Poetry

Emancipation?

Many fields, many treasures, many pearls
(One chosen). Here, fish netted, many kinds,
But singularity is not the point,
The point is, good are kept, and bad destroyed.
Are these the gentle Galilean’s words?
If so, a strange form of gentility:
The angels throw the evil in the fire,
And there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
O, how we twist and turn and rationalize,
Assured Matthew was victim of his time,
And heaven’s kingdom never need be forced,
And “way that leads to life” is easy, smooth.
Shall we amend, then, the Apostles’ Creed:
“To judge the quick and dead”? This we don’t need.



Poetry

Any day's light

The water lilies laugh, though not
Unkindly. I miss it every day:
First their opening, then their closing.
I am the small joke of flowers, not that I

Mind, though I’m looking for some guidance
In return. After all, I am like
Them, needing light but not built for
Too much of it. But unlike me,

They know when and how to quit, to close up
Shop and consider, in their pleasant,
Shuttered rooms, what the poured-down
Light of any day reveals.







Film

Jesus the priest

Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice, and moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.
—Barry Goldwater (with thanks to Thomas Paine)

Blowing up a building can change the world.
—V
Poetry

Doubting Thomas

I wish that everything could be like this—
Sex, for instance. Love. To touch the blood
Of someone else by reaching deep in kiss
Made holier than kiss, by Jesus made

Into the resurrection of the body,
And by the God for whom he is the son.
I feel that I was born to do this duty,
To place my hand inside of such a one

And gasp. I am the awe of the beloved,
Who finds fulfillment in the commonplace,
The one who hears the footsteps, sees the face,
And weeps. True, some by their belief are moved.
Not me. His blood is drying on my fingers.
The scene of who he is, and was, still lingers.