We commend the spirits
J. Scott Brownlee
Into the Valley Oak That Will Not Sing, That Will Not Even Talk
cows whose bones
bleach in the cruel radiance
of the sun god Ra's land,
these Egyptian pastures.Mirages
melt salt pyramidsat the edge of escarpment
and cedar thicket.
yourself on a limb or a great-
horned owl's call navigating
back roads or the guitar music
at the local pool shack
referred to as "a
despite only Shiner
in its beverage coolers.
The drunk dart players spin
on their axes
smoke, and country lyrics
but remain beautiful
in their constant twirling
into each other.
Have you ever watched them?
Have you ever listened
to the sermon of bodies
To commune as they do
you must give up
your good life, the city,
the Q train, Park
and pizza. Traveler,
settle here if you know
what work is and cannot
escape it without
Come and teach school
at least. You're the man
with two wives caught
the two cities you keep
like two young families
who don't know each other
they met on the 4th
of July at the fireworks
show in this two-bit
county that includes Llano,
Kingsland, and part of a vast
lake that touches
when you stand beside it
as the thunderheads build
the same blue erasure
with their ruthless anvils.
Disappear here and no one
will ever find you. Steal
truck and head out on 16
to the coast, or the border,
or hell--drive wherever
you want with the lover
miss and have not
written yet but will write
to today when the rainfall
ceases, and you're left
a Ford with some paper,
a pen, and your fingertips
inked blue as if dipped
in blood from a vein
in your arm extending
for miles if you stretch
in your imagination all the way
from Brooklyn to your heart
in Texas: just the way you like it.
-for Phil Levine
The rain pounding on tin but not passing through it cannot conjure blue
rust in the way feeling can
-oxidizing an iris to slate gray, to storm cloud, to fog
on the April morning
when my father
was born & cried out, mattering. In Burnet County
were wildflowers then.
I like to think: little crucifixions. He kissed my cheek each night
before bed until tenderness
missed its mark. Arrows he loosed forty-five yards away
targets were more measurable
the space between us. The largest buck he ever saw he never shot
was fond of saying.
I slowly came to understand the distances we were both creating every time
he told me about Troy,
Greece, Helen, & the ships sent for her. I want to hear
his voice again & know
our Athens is interstellar
as a comet's orbit though my own failing vision will not permit me to trace
constellations or apologies yet.
What am I but weakness when the past tense claims me? Salt of the earth
to the earth returning
or a spit-flecked prophet?
Supernova, maybe? At the end of the world
& our conversations will return him to me & those wildflowers.
The sun will swell
to ten times its size, rise, & my father will draw back his
without any effort.
Give me the bull nettle's bloom so that I may pluck it.
Tear my skin into strips the color of laughter
which is whiter
than this page, this preaching, even. My life is not a pinch
of ash or caliche powder unless first captured here & held
--photographic & as faint as Jesus on the Shroud of Turin
whether or not his bones were collected
in it. Synaptic caw
of the homesick crow perched on a wire fence, teach me
to turn from famine so that I may flourish in my own
unknowing as the trough of water that is algae-ridden
in this pasture until a whitetail
tongue parts it. I want
to be the clean spring water beneath that greenness.
Each feather left now in dust, totemic, beckons back
a black bit of my incarnation before snakeskin claimed me.
My body grows & has grown Germanic as a river
swallowing up another. Let my tongue not confess
my soul is about, since I do not know where
reaches ocean & sea jellyfish ease into catfish marshes.
The sky between here & the stars has its own alphabet
mathematics, all dark matter & mass heavy without measure.
I've heard the body is meant to be left, or it isn't. The soul sieves
a black hole, maybe. Imagine the weight of that spiraling: absence
or presence so dense
it makes time its elaborate puppet. If I believe
in anything, it's the slow pull of that. Who's to say the soul
isn't a destination we approach gradually in an empty pasture?
I have a kind of ritual--you might call it praying--that involves
listening to a mockingbird's call on the far fence line's edge & then
following it into oblivion. Sundown obscures
her perch from me,
the nest she tends in a live oak's
branches. Even so, she is there.
& I am here.
& neither of us needs a hymnal to take turns singing.
-from Requiem for Used Ignition Cap, selected by Guest Editor Phillip B. Williams
J. Scott Brownlee is a poet-of-place
from Llano, Texas. His work appears widely and includes the chapbooks Highway or Belief (2013 Button Poetry Prize),
Ascension, (2014 Robert Phillips Poetry Prize), and On the Occasion of the Last Old Camp Meeting in Llano County
(2015 Tree Light Books Prize). His first full-length collection, Requiem for Used Ignition Cap, was selected by
C. Dale Young as the winner of the 2015 Orison Poetry Prize, named a finalist for the National Poetry Series and Writers'
League of Texas Book Award, and received the 2016 Bob Bush Memorial Award for Best First Book of Poetry from the Texas Institute
of Letters. Brownlee is a founding member of The Localists, a literary collective that emphasizes place-based writing of
personal witness, cultural memory, and the aesthetically marginalized working class. He teaches for Brooklyn Poets as a
core faculty member and is a former Writers in the Public Schools Fellow at NYU, where he earned his MFA. Brownlee currently
lives in Philadelphia and is at work on The City Irrevocably, a novel set in Austin, Texas and Redneck Interregnum,
a second full-length poetry collection.
A Review of J. Scott Brownlee's Requiem for Used Ignition Cap by Brandon Jordan Brown, first published at Whale
At the opening of Requiem
for Used Ignition Cap, winner of the 2015 Orison Poetry Prize, stands an epigraph from the Hebrew prophet Hosea: Therefore
shall the land mourn, and everyone that dwelleth therein shall languish, with the beasts of the field, and with the fowls
of heaven; yea, the fishes of the river also shall be taken. Ominous a beginning as it is, this portion of sacred text
is fitting for J. Scott Brownlee's debut full-length collection, a book of poems that kick up dust, wildflowers, dead bodies
and haunted memories from the West Texas landscape that raised him.
Brownlee, a founder of The Localists-a collective that emphasizes place-based writing of personal witness,
cultural memory and the aesthetically marginalized working class-hails from Llano, Texas, where many of these poems unfold.
In "Plunge," a piece near the beginning of the book, the speaker catalogues the town's tragedies with a repetition
that creates a sense of watching precious contents swirl dismally toward a drain:
Empty the summer of its sweat... //
Empty the casket of the other boy / who
drowned and his mother's
Bible where she wrote her son's name / in the
margins a thousand
times. / Empty the parable where Jesus walks / on water in
storm and revise it. / Write: Jesus drowns. Everyone does. // Empty the
disappearing town / I'm both a part of and depart from ...
But if the reader of this collection feels any empathy, it's because Brownlee yanks the sink's plug in order to
siphon away the cloudy water of avoidance and highlight what lies in the basin: the land, Jesus, addicts, athletes, beauty,
disillusionment, love, and heat.
to a seemingly evaporating homeland is further explored in "Disappearing Town," where the poet continues to speak
of the place that both contains and can no longer contain him. Except here, the speaker stands in as an ambassador for the
voiceless, those who are overlooked or have lost a sense of where they fit in the larger narrative of the nation:
Here, / there's only
the road / with its white crosses / showing where cars
// "Why don't you visit?" / We can start on the north side of town /
where the poorest folks live in tin shacks / or disheveled trailers without cited
voices. // Don't you forget they have stories to tell.
Truthfully, one can only feel such a depth of heartache over a place when s/he also possesses a deep love. Brownlee
teaches us about home. And it is clear for the author that, even amidst the deluge of disappearance, Llano holds immense
value, and every resident-suicidal veterans, deer along the highway, catfish heads on a clothesline, and flowers that blossom
in roadside ditches-is a teacher. Dusty as this Texan town may be, the soil is still rich with lessons.
An Interview with J. Scott Brownlee by Andrew Hincapie, first published at Front Porch Journal
Scott Brownlee's first full-length collection of poetry, Requiem
for Used Ignition Cap, balances the metaphysical influence of natural landscapes with the concrete struggles of urban
existence as he explores the ideological framework emerging from his native Llano, Texas. Violent devotion to the physical
world often strips down the expectations of small-town Southern spirituality, so that the lyric embellishes another grander
world far removed from Brownlee's roots, and yet still returns to the haunting narrative voice of his Southern home.
Front Porch: Despite your living
and working in Northeastern cities like New York and Philadelphia, much of your writing reaches back to your roots in central
Texas. How might this regional disparity influence your work as you look back at open natural landscapes in the midst of
crowded urban environments?
Brownlee: Reading my bio online, I sound firmly like an East Coaster, certainly. Though the truth is I lived in
Llano, where the book is set, from birth through high school, and then lived right down the road from Llano in Austin for
about five years after that. I remember a poet reviewing an issue of The Greensboro Review referring to me as an
"NYU grad student" in his critique arguing the journal had too many urban poets in it, and I started laughing
while reading the review because he hadn't Googled me and realized that I write exclusively about rural Texas. For better
or worse, I'm firmly a poet-of-place who writes about a specific place. Being from "the sticks" didn't seem like
a literary opportunity until I had some separation from Texas. I lived in North Carolina while in grad school and started
writing what would become the book, though the collection didn't really take off until I came to New York to study under
Yusef Komunyakaa, who is from rural Louisiana and understood what I was trying to accomplish poetically in ways that weren't
clear to me yet. He kept advising me to "let the city into the poems," and I hope to do that someday, but have
not yet. Living in cities the past few years has provided a nice juxtaposition to the rural landscapes I conjure in poems,
which results in a tension that helps generate new writing. I am especially interested in the idea of emptiness / nothingness
/ erasure. I think part of that comes from living in dense, frenetic urban settings and dreaming about their metaphysical
opposite, while another portion comes from growing up in a place where emptiness dominates the landscape and horizon. The
God of Llano is enormous, I think, because people there need to believe in something as large (or larger) than the absence
incorporate destructive imagery like shotgun shells and broken bottles, and even soldiers wrestling with notions of the Divine,
while always returning to meditations on the natural world. How do you see this kind of violent futility informing the environmental
concerns of your work?
I'd say the destructive imagery provides an opportunity for the lyric world to intersect with the everyday world we perceive
and inhabit, and that in order to come to mourning and contemplation, we sometimes have to be tested by the proverbial "fire"
in our lives. Erasure can get our attention in ways that viewing growth or renewal often cannot. We perhaps would not even
have a need for a lyric register as poets if there weren't acts of violence interrupting and reconfiguring our lives and
memories. Balance is very important to me as a poet, and my poems cannot get to any semblance of balance without that Shiva-esque
figure entering them who is half hellion and half healer-burning the pasture down even as he seeds it with next spring's
of allusions to divine intervention, many poems focus on metaphysical aspects of wildlife and natural landscapes, and several
titles even include direct religious references that suggest a kind of prayerful or even repentant voice (Ascension,
Doe Rapture, Ritual, etc.). What was the impulse to emphasize this divine presence among your physical and oftentimes
Llano is a staunchly religious place-with an evangelically aggressive Southern Baptist Christianity serving as the dominant
mode of belief. Growing up immersed in that world and attending prayer sessions at the flagpole at school, and talking about
religion with my best friend, who was Pentecostal, the language of belief was the metaphysical water I swam in for nearly
two decades. I think the reason the prayerful, repentant voice entered the poems was that it had to in order for me to reckon
with the religiosity I once claimed, and now use as an instrument I borrow rather than claim as my own. I know how to play
that proverbial fiddle by heart at this point in my life, and letting its music enter the poems helps make the working class
lives and landscapes they highlight more aesthetically beautiful and memorable than readers might initially presume them
FP: Immediately from
the opening poem, Llano River Sunset, the stress of war and the presence of death influence much of your book.
How do you see this confessional quality as poetry of witness functioning in your work?
JSB: I'm glad these themes immediately leapt off the page for you, because I think America's
presence in the Middle East is always humming beneath the surface of these poems-even those that don't specifically address
the post-traumatic stress soldiers return from combat with or the negative psychological affects of Bush and Cheney's war
on rural America. I was a freshman when 9/11 happened, and it took a bit for the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to reach us
in Llano, but they finally did when many people I knew, unable to pay for college and seeking an escape from town, joined
the armed forces. Some of them survived. Others did not. I think about war's effect on the psyches of rural people all the
time as a result of the lives lost (often from suicide post-combat). Part of that rumination is a guilt I feel at not having
to involve myself in the difficult decisions my peers who served made and make on a daily basis. It is a small thing, writing
poems that meditate on [PTSD] and what it means to be a forgotten soldier in a forgotten war, but it also felt like an inexhaustible
subject I had to plumb the past six years, so I embraced it and did the best I could to bear witness to the experience of
Llano's veterans in this book. I think the poems could say more. I think they could be more politically active. They could
better articulate how [PTSD] has killed small towns one life at a time... slowly... over several decades.
FP: You're currently working on a novel set in Austin,
TX, while also completing a second collection of poetry. Do you find any difficulty in separating these two mediums, or
do you find yourself including more storytelling in your poetry as a result?
JSB: Confession time: I actually finished my second poetry collection several
weeks ago, so I clearly need to update my bio! It's called A Little Bit of Hardly Anything, and is floating around
at contests right now and a few of university presses I queried who took an interest in it. The novel, I could ramble on
about for pages, because it has been and continues to be the greatest writing challenge of my life. In college, I thought
I'd be a novelist and wrote a really terrible half-draft of a novel before quitting and switching to poetry, which ultimately
worked out for the best, because now, when I work on The City Irrevocably, a coming-of-age novel set in Austin,
Texas, I have the linguistic toolkit to make each sentence click poetically and flow into the sentence following it. This
is a skill I didn't have in my first incarnation as a novelist that certainly helps the fiction writing process now. I have
to say, though, that novel writing uses an entirely different part of my brain than poetry and is intensely challenging.
To combat the intimidating wall of words that appears in my head when I think of the word "novel," I found a form
that complements my training as a poet. The City Irrevocably moves in quick, page-long prose bursts that function
a bit like prose poems. These help me contain my tendency to be too lyrical when I should be advancing the plot. Imagining
each chapter as a track on an old vinyl record or a photograph has proved helpful so far, and I don't think I would have
come up with this form for the book if I hadn't spent years writing poetry beforehand.
FP: As a note on forms, many of the poems in this collection appear
sideways across the page, often in fragmented experimentations of space that force a more interactive reading experience.
What freedom if any do you find in allowing longer lines to extend the range of your voice?
JSB: Those long lines are the first visual cue when you open the
book that you're about to spend the next hour or two reading definitively "narrative" poetry, and that is an intentional
move. In composing the book, I tried to give each poem a distinct physical shape that fit its content while also paying
attention to breath and clauses. Clauses tend to be my favorite place to snap off line breaks, which has to do with me being
a proponent of the Deep Image (think Dorianne Laux, Larry Levis, and Yusef Komunyakaa, my literary forebears). To get you
to remember an image, I like to give it to you in facets you can easily interpret and piece together. Readability is critical
to me. Permission is critical to me. I want someone with a high school education to be able to pick up this book and engage
with it the same way someone with two PhDs and a penthouse in Manhattan can, and one way to do that is using long narrative
lines that don't leave my reader lost or wondering what vague poetic truth I'm pointing toward. A great example of a poem
that means exactly what it says is "Ars Poetica with a Dead Dog in It." If you look closely, you can
see the body of the dog physically represented by the second stanza in the poem, with the stanzas before and after it constituting
the ditch in which the dog's remains rest. Another poem for which spacing is crucial, "Ascension," is
a sonnet but doesn't look like one at first glance. It makes use of space between lines and clauses due to the violent subject
matter of the poem, which literally pulls the poem and its speaker apart at their seams.
FP: I couldn't help but take note that you have extended a special
thanks to your MFA brothers, whom you have come to refer to as "the Localists." What was your motivation to organize
multiple voices into a single collective like this, and how do you find this connection affects your own work?
JSB: The Localists is a poetry collective that emphasizes
personal witness, cultural memory, and the aesthetically marginalized working class, [which] my friends and I started in
grad school, and I'm conscious of the fact I wrote "brothers" in the acknowledgments. The collective doesn't only
include men now (which seems important to mention). That shout-out to my "Localist brothers" is based on the fact
that in New York, when graduate school was stressful, I first connected with Matt, J.T., and Javier, and from there have
been working to grow the movement. We envision the collective supporting writers from as many different ethnic backgrounds
and gender identities as possible, and I hope this book serves as a magnet of sorts to writers out there focused on representing
working class life. We would love for you to join the collective if you are reading this and have that identity, or are just
curious. Anyone who would like to get involved can get in touch with me at: email@example.com.
FP: As a Brooklyn Poets teacher and a former Writers
in Public Schools Fellow with NYU, do you find your own work influenced by what you teach your students, as if you might
tell students something you wish you had learned yourself?
SB: What a fantastic question! Teaching is my primary passion in life, and in the long-term, I
hope I'm able to continu[e] doing it. In particular, my favorite students come from middle class backgrounds and are first
generation college students. Philip Levine had this theory that kids who come from less end up writing the best poetry because
they don't approach writing poems as a hobby but instead as a vocation. I completely agree with him. Something I love about
teaching for Brooklyn Poets is the work I get to do with folks outside the academy, which is refreshing in that you're not
influenced by prestige or the MFA program in which you're situated, and just focusing on writing for writing's sake. My
students have taught me to be braver in my own work via the risks they take in their own. Thinking about someone else's writing
and helping it grow can be the best medicine for growing your own writing as well, it seems like. I try to be transparent
with my students when I talk about publishing and the writing life, balancing the excitement of publishing with the frustration
of rejection. On days when a big disappointment arrives in my inbox, it can be instructive to take that advice to heart
and keep moving forward.
Click here to view multiple readings by Brownlee
Editor Phillip B. Williams was born in Chicago, Illinois. He is the author of the chapbooks Bruised
Gospels (Arts in Bloom Inc., 2011), Burn (YesYes Books, 2013), and a forthcoming collection, Thief
in the Interior (Alice James Books, 2016). Williams is a Cave Canem graduate and the poetry editor of the online
journal Vinyl Poetry. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Callaloo, Kenyon Review Online,
The Southern Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, West Branch, Blackbird and others. Williams is currently a Chancellor’s
Graduate fellow at Washington University in St. Louis, where he is completing an MFA in creative writing.