Arts+Culture

Arts+Culture

We Are the Eighth Day, © Melanie Weidner

Poetry

All the news

Some look to angels
for news of the holy.
On my knees in the earth
of my garden,
hot sun rakes
my hair, licks
my neck, presses
me down, stuns
me with all the news
I can bear.
Film

Recurring nightmare

The news that director Jonathan Demme (The Silence of the Lambs) was making a new version of the 1962 cold-war thriller The Manchurian Candidate provoked howls of protest from purists who didn’t see the need for an updated version of that memorable film (especially since it was out of circulation for 25 years—a political fallout of the Kennedy assassination).
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

Getting saved

Though it has all the marks of an independent film—a film-school screenplay and production difficulties—Saved! is blessed with an intelligent script and a first-rate ensemble of actors whose characters—though slightly overdrawn—engage Christian faith in believable ways.
Poetry

The doubter

Not that you couldn’t reach Him if you tried
(maybe you couldn’t) but that you no longer try.
Your last real prayer? In a plane, beseeching
Him, don’t let me die. How actual He seems at
30 thousand feet, how passionately you love Him
in your hope for solid ground. Not unlike that day
you first felt Him ripping through your heart,
you driving fast, believing you’d foiled gravity,
dendrites of rain flowing up your windshield,
the sting of joy like spearmint in your mouth,
and now how improbable He seems. That Whoever
made the stars would even notice. You! A word
in His mouth? And yet you miss Him. If it
could be true! You think of trying to reach Him,
tell Him you’ve reconsidered.