Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Film

Celebrity reporter

Based on Gerald Clarke’s exhaustive biography, Bennett Miller’s Capote covers the six years that Truman Capote spent working on In Cold Blood. The film begins at a noisy New York cocktail party where Capote is the center of attention, regaling his friends with humorous anecdotes and observations.
Poetry

Poem found

. . . And God said, “Let there be a dome in the midst
of the waters” and into the dome God put

the poor, the addicts, the blind and the oppressed.
God put the unsightly sick and the crying young

into the dome and the dry land did not appear.
And God allowed those who favored themselves

born in God’s image to take dominion over
the dome and everything that creeped within it

and made them to walk to and fro above it
in their jumbo planes and in their copy rooms

and in their conference halls. And then
God brooded over the dome and its multitudes

and God saw God’s own likeness in the shattered
tiles and the sweltering heat and the polluted rain.

God saw everything and chose to make it very good.
God held the dome up to the light

like an open locket and in every manner called
the others to look inside and those who saw

rested on that day and those who didn’t
went to and fro and walked up and down

the marsh until the loosened silt gave way
to a void, and darkness covered the faces with deep sleep.



















Film

Twisted childhood

When he wrote Oliver Twist in 1837, Charles Dickens had a cause: he was protesting the harsh and unjust treatment of children in England. His depiction of the situation was searing—more so than the best-known movie adaptations.
Poetry

Autumnal diary

Behold, I am sending forth many fishers, says the Lord, and they shall catch them. (Jeremiah 16:16)

And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” (Matthew 4:19)

At noon the Church of the Epiphany,
on this the long anticipated Date
with Destiny on which we’re told the Fate
of Almost All depends, is strangely free
of angst. The good-sized crowd is here to see
a choir perform Cantata Eighty Eight
and hear Johann the angel Bach relate
a snatch of puzzling Bible history:
God is at first an angry fisherman
who hunts in righteous wrath our sinful kind
but then Christ stoops and speaks, wrath is undone
by love, reality is redefined,
Ohio pales, the stained glass glows blood red,
the hapless fish are named, called, calmed and fed.







Poetry

The River Lee near dark

           What people seeking solace do—they wait
until the light goes low. It’s then they’ve seen
a shadow here and there. They’ve often looked
           to touch once more a face beside the gate.

           Engaged in talk, or walking toward the pier,
they learn one word might lead them well
beyond the ways—it’s nearing late—familiar:
           out past the oaks, the trails, the salmon weir

           where waters thrum—now flash a silverwhite.
I’d follow you, he says, and next, Which way?
He stills to narrows kept for years in check.
           What people, lost, endure to see things right.