Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Blue water

Those days, I sat on our front porch
holding my daughter, my arms
and chest vibrating with joy like a tuning
fork. Atoms of our happiness fell in
on one another like gears turning
at the heart of the universe. When
stars came out at noon, the meadow
of my hollow hand was filled up
with strange light. How can it be now
that we are two separate islands
in an ocean of blue water? I think
of my own mother long ago, sitting
on her porch with me. That distant island.
When my daughter sits on her porch
this summer, holding her own child
I will watch her from my island.
I will call to her over the blue water.
Poetry

Trespasses

Among small things there are no boundaries
Not the sparrow, but the spot the sparrrow leaves
Between the shaking limb, the sunlight and the trees

Beetles discard themselves as husks
Even galaxies pass right through one another
Not us, not we middle beings

We own and occupy, stack stones at borders
We find what we lack everywhere and lack
Everything we find, wanting everything

I wait until you are asleep and warm
To touch your hip, and voice your name
To ascertain whether you are there—or only I remain









Poetry

Children in the long grass

She likes to watch her children
in the long grass, how they disappear,
emerge, like they’re swimming in
an ocean without current but the one
of growing. See how the long blades
part for them, how they close up
all around, Watch the gold
heads bob, hands reach up for
the sun as if it’s the transportation
of these years. Hear the silence,
the safe silence. And then
the muffled noise rolling through
the shafts, secured forever by the
wrinkled smile of her hearing.
Children are nature’s people now,
but her nature too, the one that
says, play here, will later sigh,
but how could I prevent you.



Film

Bunkered down

Guilt and remorse over Nazi atrocities and the horrors of World War II have consumed Germany for decades, influencing politics, culture and the arts, including cinema. The rise of the German New Wave of filmmakers in the 1970s (led by Werner Herzog, Wim Wenders and Rainer Fassbinder) was fueled in part by a desire to exorcise Germany’s dark past.
Poetry

Synge at Dun Aengus

At the white line of the shore,
where sight loses sense—
to the sure edge of things—I’ve carried me west.

No hope now in Paris . . .
its finery and absinthe,
nights marbled with comfort. And truth? But a tenth

of the whole: lichen
hard upon stones.
Gray within some grayer gray. The only motion—a lone

gannet glides above
the steel-dark surge. Galway
lumbers, crumbling, under an old Imperial sway—

its harbor lights spark
from ages out.
Rock, turf and shore. Here, at least, no doubt.

There is the sky.
There is the sea.
There is the narrow road down to the quay.