Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Late teaching



       (Mark 12:1-12)

Time’s Visitor feels time upon his head.
Tuesday of Holy Week. Sunday’s parade.
Monday’s prophetic Temple escapade.
And three days hence “beloved son” is dead.
(This was the designation Mark had heard
From Peter’s lips: “Christ said ‘beloved son.’”)
Now, since his earthly race is nearly done,
No calembour must cloud Messiah’s word.
So we require no fancy exegesis,
Creation’s gifts are here; the Covenant;
Moses; the prophets; foul sin’s great affront;
Pater absconditus, Father of Jesus.
He knew the issue of these words, so clear,
He even knew the time of chanticleer.







Film

Mr. Chappelle's neighborhood

If there is a movie that can make you feel optimistic about the possibilities of forming community in America, Dave Chappelle’s Block Party is it. In September 2004 Chappelle, an African-American stand-up comic, celebrated his $50 million contract with Comedy Central by throwing a free hip-hop party in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn.
Poetry

A word and a calling

He rose again. His face was black and bruised.
The underground famine had gnawed its gloss.
Where I have been, you could not live to tell.
First, his women returned, and then his friends.
They reached to press their fingers to his scar.
Do not touch me, he scolded crossly, cold
as Christ. Instead, they stroked the air, feeling
by degree for what had changed. But new moods
bloomed from his skin and from his bristle.
He spit upon the ground and then he cursed.
He did not walk towards the light, he walked
away. And the lock-jaw mouth of the grave
stayed agape, misgiving. As if it did
not know: Dead does not mean dead forever.



Poetry

Full Crow Moon

After a while, one starts thinking in that language,
dreaming in that language, as well as speaking in that
language
, and the behavior becomes different.
                                                            —J. J. Jameson

Wind cannot change the dark, late March,
                                                            when the strip of soil
along my fence goes soft, ready for seed.
From morning sky, a promise of heaviness.
Clouds curl like smoke, cigarettes you ask for
                                                            the day they fly you,
bound, to Dedham. So I plant orange flowers, and yellow,
whose petals trap sunlight, beacons lining the walk
from garage to house. In my dream,
                                                      you tell me

you have one more thing to do
before you can come back: prune trees before sap rises,    you say,
no pain, no ooze, the firs sleep

beyond memory. From my angle of repose, do I see
                                                         a branch blown upright
or a hawk at rest in his hunt, moon melting
layers of gold on new grass? In an orange hard hat
you swing the cherry picker. The bandit raccoon
                                                            crosses a network
of roofs yard to yard. In the alley, the grinder lops wood
into sawdust. “As long as I go to heaven,
that’s all what counts”—your answer to my fear
                                                           of awakening

to my heart chained to a wall.
Meanwhile, the storm comes slate-grey while monarchs    weave
among unbloomed sunflowers.







Film

The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada

You might expect that a movie with the teasing title The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada would deal with issues of redemption and resurrection. The film does brush up against themes of spiritual rebirth at times, but it is primarily concerned with friendship and the decision to honor the sanctity of friendship even after death.