What the river says, that is what I say
On the Tellico River, rocks that shape
the water's flow grow smooth
by this myriad force. At night, shadowed
by sycamore and birch, wherever current
shivers a glow. Light from
distant stars and our squat moon shimmers
Bald River Falls, perhaps tricks natural
selection and our mammalian optic nerve
to accept this magic as just an evening
beside a mountain stream the Cherokee
claim as holy.
Memory changes the narrative:
Your grandmother teaching you
how to tight-line fish without a cork.
It's in the feel of the pole, the line tension--
what's in the water on the other end--
the slight lift of wrist
when the jerk comes--
all with early willow green--how it can't
be separated in the moment-the elements--
outcrop, light in trees, the river--
how an old woman made of flesh commands
such resolve--flesh, mostly water,
light and shadow, brushstrokes in the eyes,
nuance of voice. My father loved Rivers
as much as
Jesus--the Buffalo, the Duck,
the Caney Fork, the Tennessee, time there,
earthly sacraments of something he knew
Why so much hoodoo about heaven
when the river and this life demand our praise.
River, how rain pocks your moving
little rings swirling just enough to confuse
the clouds, as tall reeds at your bank form
And how polished rocks
beneath the shallow shoals sing for you.
My wife cracked the windows and your
entered sleep like camphor,
as if night held seashells to our ears. You
are blind to what my eyes gather from your
surface, and yet I use the second person
as if you understood my syllabic babble.
But you speak a language old
I sit on your bank and glimpse the everlasting,
as a moon rises red through dark limbs,
and brightens every eddy
and current swirl--a moon you can draw
water from, its lunar drift in every pail.
Tonight Wind Traps Me with Its Sound
twigs bat the windows,
a long soft howl builds inside.
Love, stay sound in your slumber
and let me bear alone
the timbre of coming rain,
how first drops
against the window
like an old man's tears,
quiet and too dear to wipe away.
A neighbor's horse speaks
and story enters
an otherwise threadless dark--
memory, a coin purse of moments,
loosens its clasp.
A brother appears
Nell, his mare
with an infected shoulder boil.
With such tenderness
he rubbed salve on her running sore.
A mind loses for
events and practices
that were once dear.
And now, I'm old man nobody
on a sleepless April night,
thankful for a history,
how joy and sorrow join hands
like twins on a swing set,
the past's constant
Rain ends and begins again.
I hear a horse gallop in the
perhaps an equine act of worship.
If not, I'll claim it as my own.
Dark Matters Love Poem
Outside locusts chirr,
a thousand tiny engines.
The air itself would
its ears if it had the will
to pull empty hands
from its pockets.
A golden sun lounges
on the horizon and disappears
before anyone gathers
into the egg basket.
The magic hen that laid it
rushes the edge of the universe
Tonight the air is filled
with a veil of dark matter
the atom smasher
have ceased their mating calls,
and the barred owl is holding
court at forest edge.
It's a night when every
should start with hark,
and an oracle should step forward
and say the news is grief-filled
people suffer and die.
As the sky slumbers, I am
glad that you stay so close--
even if I can't see your face,
I feel your breath
in your chest, and if I still
my heart, I can hear you dream.
______________________________________________________________________________Poems - Bio - Interview - Reading
Bill Brown is the author of six
collections of poetry, three chapbooks, and a writing textbook on which he collaborated with Malcolm Glass. His latest
collections are Elemental (3: A Taos Press, 2014) The News Inside (Iris Press, 2010) and Late
Winter (Iris Press, 2008). During the past twenty years, he has published hundreds of poems and articles in college
journals, magazines, and anthologies. In 1999, Brown wrote and co-produced the instructional Television series, Student
Centered Learning, for Nashville Public Television. He holds a degree in history from Bethel College and graduate
degrees in English from the Bread Loaf School of English, Middlebury College, and George Peabody College. Since 1983, Brown
has directed the writing program at Hume-Fogg Academic High School in Nashville. He retired from Hume-Fogg in May, 2003
and accepted a part-time lecturer's position at Peabody College of Vanderbilt University. In 1995, the National Foundation
for Advancement in the Arts named him Distinguished Teacher in the Arts. He has been a Scholar in Poetry at the Bread
Loaf Writers Conference, a Fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and a two-time recipient of fellowships
in poetry from the Tennessee Arts Commission. In 2011, the Tennessee Writers Alliance awarded Brown Writer-of-the-Year.
An Interview with
Bill Brown by Maria Browning, first published at Chapter 16
Dyersberg, Tennessee, native Bill Brown has combined a distinguished career
as an educator with a lifelong vocation as a poet. In 2003, he retired from teaching high school after twenty years at
Nashville’s Hume-Fogg Academic Magnet, where he nurtured aspiring young writers such as Stephanie Pruitt, who was
recently named one of Essence magazine’s Forty Favorite Poets. In recent years, Brown has been a lecturer
at Vanderbilt’s Peabody College of Education and Human Development.
Time in the classroom doesn’t seem to have
interfered with his dedication to writing. He has published seven collections of poetry, as well as a writing textbook
with co-author Malcolm Glass. Described by Mark Jarman as “the most humane of poets,” Brown combines a gentle
sensibility with acute awareness of the world around him. Whether he turns his attention to the beauty of a Tennessee summer
morning or to the homeless denizens of downtown Nashville, he writes from an unfailing sympathy, a core belief in the
ineluctable connectedness of all life. His new book, The News Inside, explores the themes that have marked
much of his previous work: his rural boyhood, the richness of married love, and, above all, the parallel cycles of the natural
world and individual human lives. Aging and mortality loom large in these poems, which deal with everything from hip surgery
to a child’s attachment to a dead bat—subjects that, in Brown’s hands, are both funny and tender.
[…] I think of the bat asleep
in the steeple that pointed toward heaven,
when all along paradise was flying in darkness
over the Forked Deer River, a gut full
a gift of summer rain
Can you talk a bit about your evolution as a poet? When did you first begin writing poetry, and who were your earliest
Brown: As a boy I remember chanting nonsense poems to the air as I threw the Memphis morning
paper in my Tennessee hometown of Dyersburg. Even then I loved the sounds of words and song lyrics that were ever present
in my home. My grandmother, Sally Austin Brown, told powerful stories. I remember the little cabin on the west bluff of
the Tennessee River. On nights too hot to sleep, she wove winter tales cold enough to make me shiver. Many of my narrative
legend/mythic poems I owe to her.
Perhaps the greatest early influences came from my family. My mother quoted Emily Dickinson. My sister and brothers
performed local theater. My oldest brother, Geron, who can quote Yeats at a snap, sent me the complete works of a major
poet twice a year while he was in college and medical school. Recently, my sister gave my wife a 1966 Sunday church bulletin
with a poem scratched on the cover. For years I wrote poems during the sermons. The first two lines of this poem were:
has legs. Look,
Watch it run away.
My earliest poetic loves were Robinson, Frost,
Dickinson, Cummings, Auden, Eliot, Stevens, Roethke, and Thomas.
I began teaching English and creative writing
in the late 1970s. From the start, it felt dishonest not to write with my students. I started writing for publication
a few years later, in my early thirties. Poet Malcolm Glass, my first and best mentor, Eva Touster at George Peabody
College, and Middlebury’s Bread Loaf School of English guided me into regional and national publications.
16: So much of your writing has a powerful sense of place. Do you think of yourself as a Southern poet?
Researcher/educator, Howard Gardner, would identify my learning style as The Naturalist. I learn best when subjects present
nature: plants, animals, insects, and landscapes with mountains, rivers, creeks, and oceans. The complexities of place
and time fascinate me. I am part of the houses that I’ve lived in. I am part of landscapes of Tennessee, North Carolina,
Virginia, Vermont, and Idaho. I go to these houses and landscapes in my dreams, while sitting at my desk or driving country
roads in the hills and hollows of Robertson County. Their hovering presences inform my writing, become an inscape for emotions,
and set the tone for narratives.
Example: Many of the poems in the second section of my new book deal with a landscape I love, northwest Tennessee.
Most of the people I know there are hardworking, down-to-earth, good people. But the political corruption and religious
and racial prejudices I experienced during my youth inform many of these poems. The landscape itself becomes bleak and
corrupted. In other poems in that section, specific settings related to people and childhood experiences are those I would
return to as places of power, of solace. For these reasons, a dark tension exists in my work about that landscape.
poet, of course I am, and proud of it. But my new book has poems published in journals and magazines in twenty-two states.
Though these poems are mostly set in Tennessee and North Carolina, I feel that readers, with their personal journeys in
different landscapes, feel the truth of setting and relate to what it means to be human. I guess I’m trying to convey
that “local” is universal.
Chapter 16: A lot of your poems are built
around memories of rural life when you were a boy. Do you ever think of them as a kind of history, preserving the memory
of something that’s been lost?
In Peter Stillman’s book, Families’ Writing, he asks, “If we don’t record these histories
and memories for our children and grandchildren, who will?” I think that it is an important personal issue for anyone.
However, in my poetry, childhood experiences and family memories have become mythic and many times fictive. The standing
joke among my sister and brothers is, “Which one of us will he kill off in this book?” I’m more interested
in creating the emotional truth, the right detail, setting, and action that completes the story. After all, story is how
children learn to weave themselves into the continuum of life.
In short, the world in which I grew up is gone.
Yes, it is deeply important to me to capture it in my poems as best I can.
Chapter 16: You’ve
published three collections in the past three years—that’s an output a lot of writers would envy. Are you a
disciplined writer who works every day?
Brown: When I first started publishing, I was teaching
at Hume-Fogg. I taught wonderful students who were often an inspiration to me. However, the workload proved oppressive.
To keep writing, I made a deal with a close friend and Latin teacher, Alice Sanford: if I didn’t bring her a new
poem every Monday, I had to buy her lunch. In twenty years of teaching at Hume-Fogg, I was fortunate to publish four collections
of poetry and a textbook. When I retired in 2003 and took a part-time lecturer position at Vanderbilt, I established a
more disciplined routine.
I try to save three to four days a week for personal writing. I draft new work in the mornings and edit in the
afternoon. In between, I ride my bike or walk on the greenway by Sulfur Fork Creek. This practice is meditative and helps
jumpstart the rewriting process.
This past year a friend gave me a rich gift. I met poet Jeff Hardin for coffee early one May morning in 2009.
We talked and shared poetry and ideas for almost five hours. He challenged me to swap a new draft five days a week—a
“Brown and Hardin Daily,” he called it. I was leery but agreed. We swapped poems from May until I went back
teaching at the end of August. At least half of the poems in my new book grew from this exchange.
Chapter 16: You
have spent many years as an educator, including a couple of decades as a high-school teacher. What’s the most important
thing you tried to convey to your students about poetry, or literature generally?
Brown: In high-school teaching
I don’t separate reading, literature, and writing. I want my young writers to be specific, use thoughtful word choices,
and sensory imagery. I also stress the importance of honing the natural rhythms of individual personality and native speech.
So much is broken in our world that students’ work is often fraught with abstraction and cynicism. I tell them that
satire and irony are great approaches, but in this world it takes courage to be hopeful.
Poetry should seek to reveal something about
the human heart and its journey on this planet. In [his] Nobel Prize speech, delivered in 1950, Faulkner challenges the
future writer to leave “no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old
universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed—love and honor and pity and pride and compassion
and sacrifice.” Above all, he stresses for writers to not forget about “the problems of the human heart in
conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the
Chapter 16: A fair number of your poems are, for want of a better word, topical.
You write about war, homelessness, the media, and so on. Do you approach those poems in the same way you do your more
intimate work? Do they feel as if they spring from the same place creatively?
Brown: I was born in 1948. I’ve
lived sixty-one years, but never without war or the threat of war. My father fought on a battleship in the Pacific in
WWII, my brother was a field doctor and surgeon with the Marines in Vietnam, and I spent six years in the Tennessee Army
National Guard. I deeply respect the courage of soldiers. Recently I read that our country spends a million dollars a
minute on war. Wouldn’t we be more secure as a nation if we spent every other minute’s million on public education
or health care?
I write about the homeless because
I taught [for] twenty years on Broadway in downtown Nashville. During that time I got to know many of them by name. As
far as the media is concerned, the first news I read on Comcast this morning was that sixty young men standing in line to
get a job were killed by a suicide bomber in downtown Baghdad. Last week’s headline was the arrest of a man accused
of stabbing eighteen people, most of them African American. Right beside that sound bite I read about who got kicked off
American Idol. What is wrong with this picture? Many of my poems about these topics are born from a place of frustration
On the other hand, many of my topical poems guide poems which come from my more intimate, inner self—they
struggle with the fact that we must live in both worlds and still find silence, joy, and meaning. Stanley Kunitz wrote,
“In a murderous time the heart breaks and breaks/and lives by breaking.“ The key word in this quote for me is
not “breaks,” but “lives.” I hope this conundrum is partially addressed in the The News Inside.
16: Getting back to the subject of teaching, how important is it for a young poet to learn form? How do
you approach the issue of form in your own work?
Brown: In creative writing class, I don’t start
with form. When high school students attempt to write in strict meter and rhyme, they tend to trivialize the content and
meaning in order to meet the form. The first four weeks I let students write prompts intuitively, allowing the subject,
point of view, and narrative form to determine the genre of the work. I want them to feel comfortable composing drafts.
In the second grading period we read form poems and experiment with writing them. At the end of the unit, I require an
anthology of work that includes a sonnet, a villanelle, a sestina, and a prose poem (East European style, often surreal
or allegorical), as well as other forms. I usually require that students alter a traditional form to make it their own.
In my own poetry, I have written and published many sonnets. Currently,
my free verse poems are tending toward blank verse. I prefer to use assonance and consonance to unify my poems with sound.
I rarely use true rhymes, though I will return to strict form again, I know.
Chapter 16: Any thoughts on the future of poetry in the shifting media/publishing landscape?
Brown: Every morning I go to the Internet and read Poetry Daily, Verse Daily,
and Writers’ Almanac. I also read Poet of the Month (poetrynet.org) and the on-line journal Blackbird.
These are incredible tools and archives for writers, readers, and teachers. I tell my Vandy students that if they take
fifteen minutes each day, 365 days a year, and read the online dailies, they will have read the equivalent of nine anthologies
of contemporary poetry. How neat is that?
That said, for me, nothing will ever take the place of a book—the
feel of it in my hands, scribbles in the margins. I get goose bumps thinking about sitting in the coffee shop or library
with my book. And for those who say it’s not green, tell corporate American that I recycle a black garbage bag of
junk mail once a week.
I’ve been reading Nicholas Carr’s The Shallows, What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains,
with great interest. Many smart people fear that the virtual world is rewiring our central nervous system without our
knowledge. Will children and adults become so addicted to immediate gratification that they won’t attempt to read
a great novel, play, collection of poetry, or real newspaper—achievements that require attentiveness and giving of
the self? This is a scary, sad thought. William Carlos Williams wrote, “Life is valuable when completed by the imagination,
And then only.”
Click here to view a reading by Bill