Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Film

Nutty and Chewy

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

Firefly

I want to find the room where my father is sleeping,
take his hand and wake him. I will say I am sorry

to have come so late, after all the other children.
I will ask about his heart and his dreams,

apologize for disturbing his rest. I want to drive there
faster than anybody, but I am not even on the way home.

The masters say all is one but I am five hundred miles away,
studying the alphabet of broken trees

and the gorgeous dusk of the beaver marsh.
The masters say nothing is separate but I am lost

among the lilies, the needly mosquitoes, the slow tenderness
of the fireflies. I will leave tomorrow if need be.

Tonight I will dream of the great healing
and the night will be warm with the hum of fireflies,

the chir and splish of the beavers fitting one more stick,
one more slap of mud into the mile-long dam.













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.”









Poetry

Săracă inima mè

     —outside Biertan, Romania

Hush, my heart. There is still the light

through the windows, fields that remember
you. Past the yellow church beside the forest,
hush. I’ve had to learn the ease of waiting.
Somewhere, in autumns, the songs grow surer
with waiting. You cannot hurry through
hurt. Quiet. Still. Slow, like those swallows
along the rooftops. Color upon a shawl.

World, loving its long evenings in silence.





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.