Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Falling upward

          “. . . he was carried up, and a cloud took him.” Acts 1:9

Gravity, they say, is all about mass. Big attracts
Big sucks big pulls big, like death, won’t let go. Still,
We worship those who try: “Lucky Lindy,” St. Michael
Jordan. Leonardo, bless him, forever plotting how
To fly, or assuage the general jowliness of time.

Jesus was taken up, and Mary. St. Teresa of Ávila
Had to cling to the rail during prayer to keep from
Floating skyward—the Assumption being that things
Sometimes fall up. But, come on, which way is
Up? That is to say, which way isn’t? If Teresa was

A person of such faith, why didn’t she just let go? Like
The man I knew who, after being told he had “maybe
Six months,” immediately signed up for swimming
Lessons. “Well,” he said, “I just felt that if I could learn
How to float, I could learn how to die.”









Film

Nutty and Chewy

"Well, well, well, two naughty little children gone.
Poetry

Dream at Bethel

Quiet now, but for camel’s tongues,
lopping fat and sticky in the young

desert night, big wind in the black backdrop
of sky, crickets and their ancient legs, log-pops

from my small fire. Cool on my feet,
this breeze after two days walking since trees

of my village waved their shaggy good-byes. My wool socks
stuffed in boots, I relax; put a smooth rock

under my head, start to dream the dreams of my life:
I can fly like hawks, have green-eyed wives

from the east, am a sailor with a swift ship,
fish, kingdoms under me, then this:

a ladder leaning into clouds, bright like sun-high noon,
quick as raindrops, up and down, angels, soft as moon.

Then a whisper comes sliding too, down the ricket of the bars,
promising health, wealth, good luck, descendants like the stars.

The fire is dim as voices when the drop
of my leg wakes me. Blinking, I prop

on an elbow and look around for stairs, an unnatural
hint of spirits, but see only my bearded camels,

some lights on a hill from town, my boots, provisions.
I think better of my strange vision.

At breakfast I splash oil on my pillow rock—
it seems holy still—and get ready to walk, pack

everything, give the camels some straw,
call the place Church, to remember what I saw.























Film

War-weary

Steven Spielberg’s War of the Worlds churns up an emulsion of suspense and horror that engulfs you with the gray relentlessness of a low-grade fever. This is not the kind of thrilling, soaring adventure Spielberg created in Jaws or Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom; it’s a cheerless piece of visceral manipulation.
Poetry

Christening

                                          for Garland

Rose-light hues us on the porch, you nestled
in my arms, as I consider the osprey
circling his customary roost, atop
a power pole across the street. His stare,

not bold or arrogant, but natural,
makes me strangely warm as does his spearing
cry, calling down a reverence for the dusk.
I have witnessed his plummet, through air

rushing too fast to breathe in, falling toward
a point in the water where nothing is.
What does the mullet see at that convergence?
A bullet-shadow covering grainy light,

Leaving the house at dawn, I have witnessed
the osprey on the cross beam of his pole
humming with power, as he tugs out the packed
guts gnashing them down, and I have felt redeemed

in the light that marks us all for sacrifice.
Son, may you find your own pursuing voice,
its argot of praise, Christ-fierce and Christ-wild.
When I hear the osprey’s cry, I know your name.