Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

After long illness

          God never makes anything without a remedy.
                                                          T. H. White

Sprinkle me with rose water, saffron and powdered cloves.

I crave Basilisk baked in hummingbird milk, haunch
of unicorn—O, Lord, set before me full platters.

I celebrate star fruit, brie, angel hair pasta,
artichokes, tilapia, wine,
                                           drizzled truffle oil,
and parsley both curly and flat.

Bard pheasant breasts, crush garlic, whip cream,
and let me lick the bowl and the beaters.

Deep fry onion rings. Stew the okra
and the collard greens. Fill me with popcorn, doughnuts
and fried egg sandwiches.
                                            Hold the ketchup—
I am not completely shameless.

I praise even the coarsest of salt
crusted upon sliced limes,

for it is good to hunger and thirst.














Film

Kids with cameras

Zana Briski is a New York photojournalist who went to India in 1995 to document the plight of women in a patriarchal society. In 1998 she encountered the prostitutes working in the red light district of Calcutta. She moved in with them and got to know their routines.
Poetry

Come forth

I hear you’re good at washing feet—
ever thought of washing the dishes?
You wouldn’t have to stop talking.

The one about the Pharisee and the leprous camel—
I could listen to that again. But I figure,
why sit out here in the parlor,

using up perfectly good cigars,
when we could all be
getting something done in the kitchen?

And if you set the example that way,
my sister there might actually think
to roll up her sleeves once in a while.

See what I’m saying?
Lazarus might even take the hint.
Hah! Over his dead body, he says.

Film

Dark secret

In The Woodsman, Kevin Bacon plays Walter Rossworth, a pedophile who, having served a 12-year prison sentence, tries to settle down to a normal life. His sister has disowned him, but his brother-in-law (Benjamin Bratt) remains friendly.
Poetry

Little blessing spoken in road rage

Chariot from Hades, fire
glinting from its windshield, steel
knife splitting the atom
to pull in front of me,
so close now I can see
the driver, her phone, can hear
death ring. Searching
for a place to get away, I swerve
into a corridor of hate,
detesting her, my body fired
with full throttle hatred,
I rev up, speed ahead, so
close now I can see her
her mouth a frightened grimace.
How exposed she is, wearing
only the flimsy dress of a car,
her brief face etched
and dying on the air, when
someone calls, Bless this
child. May her parents see
her alive tonight, speaking
through me, a voice, then
peace, as she passes safely by.