Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

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.



Poetry

Cousin Quartet

Years ago, my mother sang in a quartet
with her sister Lorraine and their two cousins.
The Cousin Quartet, it was called.
I just asked her about it tonight, as she lay dying.

“The funny thing was,” she said,
“we always stood with our backs to a window.
And someone was always pouring sand.”

I asked my aunt about these things;
she shook her head. And so we gather
evidence for the fading music
of the mind, the light behind us.
And someone is always pouring sand.







Music

Sound alternatives

The British band Delirious has always been smart, drawing comparisons to U2, Radiohead and Blur. With the album The Mission Bell, the band shoots for added lyrical depth and force. “Our God Reigns,” a key-of-D dirge built around spare acoustic guitar, keyboards and thunderous percussion, may be the hardest-hitting piece, tacking issues like abortion and the AIDS pandemic. (“My Chinese take away/ Could pay for someone’s drugs.”) “Love Is a Miracle” alternates between smoldering, soulful verses and wide-open, gospel-flavored choruses, while “Paint the Town Red” rocks as hard as anything Delirious has ever cut.
Poetry

Friday

I am imagining the soldier
who drove the nails,
clambering around or across
the body, straddling and stretching
to reach the hands,
trying to avoid seeing
the face and eyes,
ignoring the eternal life line
dividing the palms
from fingers down to wrists,
glimpsing the lips
moving silently,
mouthing words not meant
for ears to hear;
And I’m wondering
how many keepers of reliquaries
claim to own those nails,
or perhaps even the letter home
written by the nailer
or some other soldier ordered
later to do his duty
and pull them out.