Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

Wetlands nocturne

(Rhodoms Point, Big Colington Island)

You gave me time. And giving
that, like a master, a miser, gave away nothing.
You knew this all along. For
though you move in cycles and seasons,
you dwell beyond, outside of time and measure, beyond
the scope of words and reasons.
This is what you give, then: a center, a way
of being, that though it moves, lies beyond movement
the way the springs of a well rise
far below the moving waters of their mirrored
surface where they play and spill like the dance of trees
rooted upside down in heaven.
How strange it seems, through the looking glass. For I know
your ways, am one of them with you. Like needle,
like compass, like kayak
I follow you as you follow me.
And moving, am moved toward you. As you
like these waves, make no move at all.
Croatan Sound. Albemarle Sound. Currituck Sound.
Pamlico Sound. The music
of a water wind beyond human names
and naming.

Film

Free spirit

Spanish director Alejandro Amenábar’s The Sea Inside is a triumph-of-the-spirit picture with an unconventional premise: the hero, Ramón Sampedro (played by Javier Bardem), a quadriplegic for two decades as the result of a diving accident, is seeking the right to end his life.
Poetry

Vanitas still life

When petals from a lavender
larkspur drop onto the gray
rock on the mantel, I let them
stay where they fall, next
to the empty vase,

shocking myself later,
chilled in bone and flesh
by dead blossoms on cold stone
beside a vessel, powerless.

Poetry

Sometimes I wish the rain

could wash my impatience away,
my hardness-of-heart rinsed like grit
from the blackberry bush by the road,

the rain-soaked boughs of the sassafras
bobbing in the day-after wind
like waves turning in a lake, a spray of droplets
suddenly shaken down.

I could stand in the field surrounded
by such luxury and feel for a moment lighter
as if I’d forgiven one thing, one.



Poetry

Waxwings in the pryrocanthus

Heavy the waxwings hang upon the bough,
A gospel dozen, sharing summer fruits,
The pyrocanthus touched with winter snow,
Alive with yellow-banded crested suits.
There is no solitary prophet here,
Spying the setting, ranking lesser wings;
They come in droves, in droves they disappear,
Unlike the dove, alone no waxwing sings.
Of course the birds are metaphor to me,
The waxing congregation sharing all;
The dove, I think, practices poetry,
Solitary, an “individual.”
Is it perverse to sing a lonely song,
When love prescribes the place where we belong?