Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

From Lindisfarne

The route wends rock
to slippery rock, round
seaweed clumps bared

by ebbing tide, from
ruined priory to sunlit
isle lush with flowers

and blowing grass—
hermitage for pilgrims
hastening on. At the

cathedral light filters
into Saint Cuthbert’s
shrine, where sculpted

stone lauds the Christ,
who twines all storied

with his.













Poetry

Mourning for Zenaidura

Outside the window, seeds laid on the ledge,
A sick dove staggered, pecked, staggered again,
And while I watched, it toppled off the edge
And lay struggling, then feebly pecked again.
I took some water in a small can lid
and set it by its unprotesting bill,
I built a barrier so it was hid
From predators seeking an easy kill.
Night came and dawn, and with the morning light
I saw the vanity of what I’d done;
The dove was there, eyes rigor mortis tight,
Flecked feathers golden in the morning sun.
I took some comfort in an ancient word,
“God knows when sparrows fall,” or any bird.
Poetry

El plato especial

Chisme, oh that succulent dish sold
and served with a side of snide
words wrapped in caring concern
for your health. People urge you to unpackage
your heart. They slop it, boiled or roasted,
on a plate of I-told-you-so’s, sumptuous
and steaming. They plunge their teeth into chile
picante comments, those juicy and spicy words.
They wound and scrape, sticking to forks,
pitching tongues. People munch their meal,
this food. You, too, relish it. Each morsel
you savor. Until the flavor floats and reaches
your stomach. You chew and wonder
why the special of the day tastes so familiar.
Film

Getting saved

Though it has all the marks of an independent film—a film-school screenplay and production difficulties—Saved! is blessed with an intelligent script and a first-rate ensemble of actors whose characters—though slightly overdrawn—engage Christian faith in believable ways.
Poetry

The doubter

Not that you couldn’t reach Him if you tried
(maybe you couldn’t) but that you no longer try.
Your last real prayer? In a plane, beseeching
Him, don’t let me die. How actual He seems at
30 thousand feet, how passionately you love Him
in your hope for solid ground. Not unlike that day
you first felt Him ripping through your heart,
you driving fast, believing you’d foiled gravity,
dendrites of rain flowing up your windshield,
the sting of joy like spearmint in your mouth,
and now how improbable He seems. That Whoever
made the stars would even notice. You! A word
in His mouth? And yet you miss Him. If it
could be true! You think of trying to reach Him,
tell Him you’ve reconsidered.