Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Film

Raunchy family values

A friend of mine has an idea for teaching youth about sex: have them view one of those graphic birthing videos that the hospital has for first-time parents, the kind that shows the crowning and the afterbirth, the agony and the joy. The kids will get the idea.
Poetry

Abandoned boat at sunrise

Up north, my wife, Felice, slipped
away with emphysema, and my work
cruised on without me—accounts balanced,
mortgages afloat.
                                    My sleep done
down here in Florida, I stand
looking out a darkened window
no one’s looking in.
                                          The morning paper
never comes too soon with its rites
of scandal and opinion. I finger
my few stocks’ shifting fractions, consult
the weather map’s puzzle,

while the percolator gurgles and sighs.
I wait for the light,
                                 wait for that moment
when Felice appears, pouring my cream,
easing my bitterness by asking, “Where
will you go today, and who will you carry?”

Poetry

Lightening

That bones will brittle
Is my truth,
And that all little
Cells, forsooth,

Will fail and fall,
And falling, leave
My brain’s recall.
So I receive

Lightness of being,
And a beginning
Of agreeing
With this thinning.

So long, lucidity.
Welcome, life’s
Gentle finality—
Its gradual knife.

Forgive the cells
That float and fly.
They’ve done so well,
And so have I.







Film

Paris forever

The city of lights would seem the perfect setting for a compilation of 18 short films, each five to eight minutes long, about love and passion.
Poetry

A very little thing

A very little thing is rolling
down the street at dawn,
some little yellow thing, a lemon,
rolling down the center
of the street from the little
grove just up the hill.

Has the cold of the morning
snapped its hold upon the tree?
Or did someone toss it, carelessly,
to see it mind its little business,
bundling down the little street?

Will it fall in the little creek
at the bottom and ride
the current to the sea?
Will it float there—a lemon buoy,
a yellow bobber, a little
sour island on the salt rim
of the little world?