Brain Mill Press Celebrates Poetry Month 2015 Winning Poets

by mainbrain@brainmillpress.com | Apr 1, 2019 | NPM 2015, Poetry

We’re overwhelmed by the positive response to our first poetry month. Both weeks, we had talented poets participate, and it was a particular joy to showcase their poems on our blog. During the events, when we received a new poem in our inbox, it was genuinely exciting. We read them right away, and we read them out loud. These poems provided respite and conversation to a very small but very busy publishing house, and then provided discussion and ideas to our audience when they were shared.

So one might ask, if these poems, all of them, already did so much, why recognize “winners?” It’s a valid question, and an important one, and the answer reflects this — because poetry is important and it is valid, and there is significant skill and craft and self employed in the writing of a poem in addition to singing. All of these poems sang, all of them, and it is a human impulse to sing of ourselves and for others, and also, there are poets seriously dedicated to making poems as beautiful as can be borne, and who are in conversation with formal constraints, history, language, and influences. Recognizing such poets forwards poetry for all of us — in the reading and writing of it, and of its significant use in activism, which is desperately required in our world.

Poets are still executed, detained, imprisoned, and otherwise silenced, all over the world, for writing poems. Iranian peace poet Hashem Shabaani was hanged for his work by a tribunal last winter. Susana Chávez Castillo (Mexico), an outspoken poet and women’s rights activist, was found brutally murdered, a crime believed to be associated with her political and artistic expression. Currently, poets Aron Atabek (Kazakhstan), Mohammed Ibn al-Dheeb al-Ajami (Qatar), Enoh Meyomesse (Cameroon), and Liu Xia (China) are imprisoned for their poems and speech by their governments or government factions — all in inhumane conditions.

Poems and poets are important. Recognition and promotion of poems is vital. Poems are a vital contribution of speech, and they have often been the speech that has sang the purest, and the loudest, and the most human.

Elizabeth Berry is our 2015 overall winner of Brain Mill Press Celebrates Poetry Month events. Her poems, On Growing Up, submitted to the WORK event, and Stars in the Sky, submitted to the LOVE OR FEAR event, are arresting for their authority, the intensity of their anger at where the women they speak of find themselves, honed with plain language and sharp metaphor. Her two poems resolve nothing in their ending lines, and yet push to the reader to feel catharsis.

Additionally, Brain Mill Press would like to recognize two runners up, G.B. Gordon and Pam Faste. you by Gordon showcases a lyrical attention to language and is deeply romantic without sweetness. We found you to be both spare and heavy with the feeling of the speaker. Faste’s poem, Moment Before, captures beautifully a small and breathless moment of infatuated anxiety that all of us deep in love or like or crush have felt so keenly.

Thank you, everyone, and please share this announcement far and wide.

On the day that my grandfather died my grandmother lit a cigarette looked down at the stricken faces of her children and said well, we still have this farm to take care of. My mother, then eight, looked out the window at the cows that crowded the fence, waiting for food, for release from the swollen udders, and beyond at the hay, tall in the fields, and at the tractors resting in the sheds, waiting for the long legs of morning to walk up and turn the key.

At eighteen, my mother, as lean and brown as a leather strap covered her face and veiled her reasons to follow my father a hundred miles from home.

Three kids in three years.

        Mortgage

                yard

                        car

                                pool

                                        PTA

Low money, no money, grocery store clerk, pregnant daughter, baby crying all night, no lights, pay that bill but another’s coming.

And so it went for thirty years. Yet every month they would drive back over the mountain as visitors, and sit, drinking tea until the cows moaned and the others rose to go to work.

Occasionally, reluctant to unclasp ourselves from the circle of laughter and soft shadows that floated down from the familiar ceilings, we would follow them to the cool concrete floors, and clanging gates of the milking barn. My mother, face lit by the glow of the yellow interior lights, moved quickly to lead, to coax the herd into position and nodded with satisfaction when they lined up, and did their jobs.

Maybe your cancer has come back and that is why it is so hard to sleep and when you do sleep you wake up with a throat full of sand and you stumble across the worn wood floors to the kitchen for water and gulp it down by the glassful trying not to look at the window because the moon might look back and once you lock eyes with it it’s hard not to notice the blanket of stars that spreads out forever

and there’s just something about a blanket of stars spreading out forever that is destroying you making your heart literally ache in your body as you yearn for a boy’s fat hand in your hand his face a moon shining back in a picture that you keep hidden in a drawer with all of the other sharp knives safe there from stars raining down from skies from windshields exploding on impact.

You rub the scars. Stare out the window.

For this year’s National Poetry Month, Brain Mill Press & Voices wants to add to your #TBR pile, sing siren songs of unsung heroes, and signal boost living poets we should be reading more. By the end of the month, we hope you will have acquired 30+ new books of poetry and that they continue to multiply in the darkness of your library. Explore new voices & new forms — re-read some old favorites — play if you liked this poet, you’ll like . . . the old-fashioned way, algorithm-free — just poetry lovers talking to poetry lovers, as the Universe intended. Happy #NaPoMo2019 from Brain Mill.

Love or Fear

by mainbrain@brainmillpress.com | Mar 31, 2019 | NPM 2015, Poetry

Brain Mill Press was honored to get these five wonderful “Love or Fear” submissions to our final event for Poetry Month. Please read the final entries by Elizabeth Berry, Pam Faste, GB Gordon, Dylan Loring, and Karen Wellsbury, and tomorrow, we’ll announce an overall winner from both the April 17th and this April 30th Brain Mill Press celebrates Poetry Month poetry posts.

Maybe your cancer has come backand that is why it is so hard to sleep and when you do sleepyou wake up with a throat full of sand and you stumbleacross the worn wood floors to the kitchen for waterand gulp it down by the glassful trying not to look at the windowbecause the moon might look back and once you lock eyes with itit’s hard not to notice the blanket of stars that spreads out forever

and there’s just something about a blanket of starsspreading out foreverthat is destroying youmaking your heart literally ache in your bodyas you yearn for a boy’sfat hand in your handhis face a moon shining back in a picturethat you keep hidden in a drawerwith all of the other sharp knivessafe therefrom stars raining down from skiesfrom windshields exploding on impact.

You rub the scars.Stare out the window.

It’s like thisthat moment before I speak,or write or post or sendor walk into a room, andthen again inthe moment just after, but also beforeas I waitawareness etched in acidthat sizzling, light-headed anticipation ofyour attention,my wrongnessreflected in your eyesin yoursilence drawn back to an ugly, rock strewn beachthe wave caught at the apex of its curvebefore the rising roar,before the scalding onrushof shame

your face of cream and steeland laughter, like water and wholeand your old, blue Volvo

brick and slanting light

framingmuscled gracedancing, breathless, like a good gallop

a lady’s dirty nailsand sun marksat the corners of your eyes

a taut feelinglike guitar stringsfine-tuning the sensesno eternityjust now

I can’t set out to write a love poembecause when I doI end up runningcheese through the grater.

I can’t set out to write a love poembecause it makes me feellike I’m invoking broad generalizationsinstead of interpersonal revelations.

I want to write a love poemand have the person it’s intended forread it in silencethen hug me.

I want to write a love poemfor one personso that that one person knowsit is a true love poem.

Love is likefinding a good sushi restaurantin the African desertassuming you’re really into sushi.

Love is likean agoraphobe leaving his housejust this onceand just for her.

Poetry is likeprose vomiting a sculpturethat the person you loveproceeds to appreciate.

Poetry is likea smiling severed deer headon a platterbut with words.

Poetry is likea bunch of similesdesperately attemptingto convey feeling.

This is a love poem,this is not a Hallmark card,and you can’t buy one of thoseduring my love poem.

This is a love poem,we are a love poem,we are a seriesof love poems.

This is a love poem,it is cheesy,admit thatyou love it.

Dylan Loring is an MFA candidate at Minnesota State University, Mankato, where he studies Poetry and Screenwriting. In addition, he hosts KMSU 89.7’s Weekly Reader author interview program and serves as Poetry Editor for the Blue Earth Review.

Pa brought a puppy home, wrappedIn his coat, at Christmas remember that? Laughterbubbles up, while hands on the tablegrasp and twine, searching for a truthwhere’s my Tommy, he’s late, he’llmiss tea. Grandad died Nan, Tommy’sgone. Watch for recognition, hazy eyedremembrance, Tommy died?he’s in his room, don’t lie, and whena trick of the light looks like a smilewe have tea, I make believeit’s alright. Hand slaps table, fragilebrittle china white, her rage like flash fireshe fixedmy fissured heart, custard pourer supremeGrace beloved of Tommy,cocooned in kitchen warmth, teasated – hold my hand, pleaseknow me. Tommy needs his teashe flattens her skirt like my heart, myfirst love, took me to school, Itake her to bed.

For this year’s National Poetry Month, Brain Mill Press & Voices wants to add to your #TBR pile, sing siren songs of unsung heroes, and signal boost living poets we should be reading more. By the end of the month, we hope you will have acquired 30+ new books of poetry and that they continue to multiply in the darkness of your library. Explore new voices & new forms — re-read some old favorites — play if you liked this poet, you’ll like . . . the old-fashioned way, algorithm-free — just poetry lovers talking to poetry lovers, as the Universe intended. Happy #NaPoMo2019 from Brain Mill.

Work

by mainbrain@brainmillpress.com | Mar 31, 2019 | NPM 2015, Poetry

Brain Mill Press is so pleased to present our first set of poets participating in Brain Mill Press Celebrates Poetry Month 2015. This group of poets responded to the poem prompt WORK. We’re moved and honored to present these poets and their poems to you.

On the day that my grandfather died my grandmother lit a cigarette looked down at the stricken faces of her children and said well, we still have this farm to take care of. My mother, then eight, looked out the window at the cows that crowded the fence, waiting for food, for release from the swollen udders, and beyond at the hay, tall in the fields, and at the tractors resting in the sheds, waiting for the long legs of morning to walk up and turn the key.

At eighteen, my mother, as lean and brown as a leather strap covered her face and veiled her reasons to follow my father a hundred miles from home.

Three kids in three years.

        Mortgage

                yard

                        car

                                pool

                                        PTA

Low money, no money, grocery store clerk, pregnant daughter, baby crying all night, no lights, pay that bill but another’s coming.

And so it went for thirty years. Yet every month they would drive back over the mountain as visitors, and sit, drinking tea until the cows moaned and the others rose to go to work.

Occasionally, reluctant to unclasp ourselves from the circle of laughter and soft shadows that floated down from the familiar ceilings, we would follow them to the cool concrete floors, and clanging gates of the milking barn. My mother, face lit by the glow of the yellow interior lights, moved quickly to lead, to coax the herd into position and nodded with satisfaction when they lined up, and did their jobs.

Not the gentle crashing of ocean againstgrains of glass or the air againstphotosynthesizing branch

The crashing of steel against steel,wheel and rail complaining againstone another until one topples the othersends it careening

Time folds in on itself.

State to state or borough to borough?Concerns for type of steel bullet give way toconcerns for a mother traveling, perhapsby train that day

Rushing to an officethat no kindergarten teacher should have—Principal, maybe? Professor?Hers? Mine?

Time folds in on itself.

Longer I lookin the mirror, more I see herreflection staring back inthe way nose widens to smile,hand-me-down teacher’s clothes

Time folds in on itself.

Wake unsure what state I’m in.

Audrey T. Carroll is an MFA candidate with the Arkansas Writer’s Program. She graduated with a BA in Creative Writing from Susquehanna University.  Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Fiction International, Hermeneutic Chaos, Foliate Oak, Writing Maps’ A3 Review, The Cynic Online Magazine, and others.

I’ve started in schoolTaking detailed notesThat covered every pageStudying for hoursPreparing for tests.

I was an overachieverGetting A’s and B’sWas a valedictorian in 8thThen saludictorian in 12th.

College was the challengeTaking on monstrous coursesThat tested my skillsTo see if I had what it takes.

I tumbled and fell,But I didn’t give inKept climbing to the topTo reach the peak of successAs the sun shined upon me.

Five years passedGot my degreeNow I needed a jobEasier said than done.

Kept searching high and lowBeen applying everywherePracticing and improvingFor upcoming interviews.

Though nothing has come alongBeen about three years nowYet I’m not giving upI’m sure the time will comeWhen my dream job appearsFor this hard-working achiever.

Men of ironClimb the skySome will fallA long way to dieNo single one of themHas ever screamed or criedIn agony and horrorOn their deadly diveBecause Iron WorkersLive and die by this code‘When you’re falling’‘Meet your death bold’

The Monday after HalloweenI laid down the law to my employees“You’d better be here on the jobOn both Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve”

And if you don’t like what I have to sayLook for someplace else that paysCause here in the good old USAIt’s your boss’s way, or the highway”

Much to my surprise no one protestedNot one dared even chirpExcept for old Mable,Who slowly turned roundBent over,And lifted up her skirt

Pulling down her bloomersAll the way to her anklesShe looked over her shoulderThen said with a smirk,“You can kiss my old bare assCause this girl won’t be a slaveFor some asshole of a jerk”

I was shocked to say the leastAnd before I could show Mabel the doorAll my other employeesTurned round, then bent overAnd let their pants hit the floor

Now I ask you my fellow AmericansWhat sort of countryAllows folks to moon their boss?Let alone even dareTry to back talk?

No wonder we send jobs to ChinaAnd some to CameroonNo one there would try to moonA rich and powerful tycoon

My tale of woe gets worseAfter filling out all those pink slipsWhen I left my office, what did I find?All my employees picketingIn long strike line

And you know who was leading it?That damn old MableHolding a hickory stick“Oh Shit!”

So heed my warningMy fellow entrepreneursBefore telling folks to dance to your tuneThere just might be oneEmployee like old MableWho’s not afraidTo show you the moon

Author’s Note: Forgive me but within every pretentious poet, there is a thirteen year old, dying to get out.

Not enough women on the board,mainly made of men.How they will be lured,not enough women on the board?Is this sexism to be cured,to break the male dominated hoard.Not enough, women on the boardmainly maid of men?

For this year’s National Poetry Month, Brain Mill Press & Voices wants to add to your #TBR pile, sing siren songs of unsung heroes, and signal boost living poets we should be reading more. By the end of the month, we hope you will have acquired 30+ new books of poetry and that they continue to multiply in the darkness of your library. Explore new voices & new forms — re-read some old favorites — play if you liked this poet, you’ll like . . . the old-fashioned way, algorithm-free — just poetry lovers talking to poetry lovers, as the Universe intended. Happy #NaPoMo2019 from Brain Mill.