Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

What ever happened to the Baby Jesus?

Near chamomile and rosebud potpourri
a pair of porcelain camels rest, bit players
glazed and unaware of this faux Nativity.
Peasant extras lift their silent, pleasing prayers
with seasonal adoration. None harbors
signs of panic: no goats or stable maids,
no wise trio, those dazzled star readers
bearing gifts of frankincense and myrrh.
Not the puzzled carpenter from Galilee.
Not the curious shepherds, nor the virgin
exhausted still from her spotless labor.

These figures encircle a barren trough.
Where have you gone, O lost Christ child?
In truth, the Messiah’s size is the stuff
of legend: he’s been abducted. (No Ascension-
Come-Early before the ministry begins)
Not much bigger than a packing peanut,
the babe’s become an object of devotion,
begotten for those tenacious paws’ wild
swatting or mouth that totes the Savior in haste.
We spy the vacancy and know the culprit:
fat Larry, golden pear and roly-poly cat,

that ring-tailed and recidivist felon.
Regular brigand of the infant Son,
he mocks this fragile coffee-table cast.
We joke that his is a holy commission,
converting birthplace to an empty tomb,
Bethlehem yoking the born and risen.
Each time He’s someplace new: laundry room
or water dish. Under chair, in basement,
unknown manger now. And still His grace
and tiny lacquered limbs feel ever present,
embodying their reliquaried space.

Music

CC recommends

Choral and vocal

This CD has almost all the unaccompanied sacred mixed-choir music Brahms wrote after his mid-20s, plus the earlier fragments of a canonic mass. The 37-member choir performs with excellent dynamics and diction in a resonant space.
Film

Hours of Babel

The acclaimed Mexican filmmaker Alejandro González Iñárritu strings together four stories from around the globe in Babel. It’s an effort to show an interconnected world marked by divisions, alienation and suspicion—the curse of Babel.
Poetry

Ave Maria

Why does the angel always hold out a lily?
Is it because she is a lily of a lady;
As lithe and surprising, as pearlescent?
Or because the starring petals trumpet good news?

Or was she essentially being asked
to consider the lilies;
pulling sidereal considerations
down to the lilies of the field?

And these lilies with magenta freckles,
spring-green ribbed where the petals fold,
looking like blood and passion with
their fragrance of spice and memory.

Isn’t looking into their center to glimpse glory;
to spiral to heaven, dew-eyed, dusted
and trailing copper pollen?
Is there any other word but yes?









Poetry

In Advent

Among the drift of lists across my desk,
this one—“call the cemetery for reservations,”
a narrow room for my body at final rest.

I will ask, is there an open space
somewhere near my mother or brother? Room
for two, perhaps, among the roots of cedars

under the sod and the one who now rolls
over it on his mower, mustache damp
in December fog, his headphones full of love songs.

We’re in the time of waiting for our salvation,
that slow movement toward the final night,
when light is nothing but breath inside

a cave, earth hiding its treasure until
we are ready to receive it. That place
we travel toward like the Magi, weary

and expectant, laying our gifts on the straw.