Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Film

Web of emotion

The best tales of the supernatural, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer, use fantasy to dramatize emotions that are too dark and overpowering to be treated conventionally. Sam Raimi’s marvelous Spider-Man 2 takes audiences into some pretty deep waters too.
Poetry

From Lindisfarne

The route wends rock
to slippery rock, round
seaweed clumps bared

by ebbing tide, from
ruined priory to sunlit
isle lush with flowers

and blowing grass—
hermitage for pilgrims
hastening on. At the

cathedral light filters
into Saint Cuthbert’s
shrine, where sculpted

stone lauds the Christ,
who twines all storied

with his.













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.





Poetry

Hummers

Even in Maine’s rain and fog I catch them,
often in pairs, or waiting, patient, perched on
a scarcely bending twig of our aged forsythia,
then working the window box petunias
till the coast seems clear, while I hover, motionless,
on the shadowed porch, hungry for still another glimpse
of ruby throat and emerald layered coat,
the delicate dip of beak in cup, the tilted head,
the blur of wings, that sudden flash of movement—
now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t.
Whatever it may be in me—
some wandered/wondered child—
that makes me watch and wait, this late,
the daily hours to catch their, almost holy, visitations,
I’m grateful for it, mindful too
of one who, every once in a long while, still hovers
back there just beyond, behind the nearest edge
of solitude, or prayer, or even glimpses of the tiniest of birds.