Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

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

The heat is on

Since bursting onto the national scene in 1989 with his celebrated documentary Roger & Me, Michael Moore has gone from being that goofy overweight filmmaker in tennis shoes and a baseball cap to being the resolute voice of the common American. His battles with the powers-that-be have cast him as a modern-day Frank Capra.
Poetry

A good Christian mustn't fear the darkness of the grave

But let me tell you about its landscape. Small,
hot, wooden, and from above no one will hear you murmur
let me out. Out of the darkness nothing’s delivered. Still,

you beg it to the brass of the coffin’s creak hinge while satin grows stench
and your death dress rots away. You are livid and left alone.
The red jasper chaplet in your hand inclines to the pretense

of prayer. You are appalled, shrouded, sutured shut.
They did not put the pillow in between your knees. And
your lipstick’s smeared. Once upon, you wished for a thousand infinities.

Finally arrived, nothing can be more broken, nothing can be
more than dead. A devilwood tree hones toward the uncarved side
of your stone. But this, of course, is not the end.





Film

Wizard comes of age

In the third Harry Potter movie based on J. K. Rowling’s wondrous series of children’s novels, filmmaker Alfonso Cuarón takes the wheel from Chris Columbus, who steered both of the earlier pictures. It would be hard to think of a director with finer credentials for the job.