Rifled

he scrolled through his contacts, debating on who’d hear the ringing shots,

who’d get burned by a stray shell and who’d toss his gun

not who’d get cut down mid-run

trying to save him

from himself:

the ride or die

who pawned her life

for his love

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

She Raises Me

A prose poem that I wrote for class:

Flirting with thirty from down the hall, barely grasping the scheme of it all, I pull my breaker tighter though the weather is nicer as she tugs on the strap of my baggage, slowing my pace. In a line, with no front and no end but I’m next, in the midst of a contest with no rest… I’ll sprint ’till my shins split and she knows this, believes this even as the tears streak. I’m crushed and ground, salt of the earth, weak. And she still sees the beauty in the beat and swollen me. Is certain that this hurt is only temporary… she tempers my tantrums on the contrary. One of the most beloved set loose from a luminous galaxy to find… me and to wind… me while the rest of this test worries into my vitality. I’m taller. But she’s bigger. I now read well. But she is the cover, my daughter, six and none the wiser that she’s wiser, a better mother to the child in me.

– B. Brown

(art courtesy of Pinterest)

To Whom This May Concern…

As sorry as I’ve felt,

at the foot of my bed,
fetal and folded in

holiday in flannel,

softening for a cigaro
persuading tomorrow,

while clasping laughter

of way back when,

(it sometimes slips)

to sing with your arrival
and to
ring with your arousal

like when I ushered you through

down my Nile,
risking defile,

I will never
apologize for kissing you,
loving you,

only for listening to you

only for

missing you,

like always

for you

-B. Brown

(art image courtesy of Pinterest)

First day subbing…

And they’re trying to figure out where to put me. All the subs came flocking to this school because they have teachers out for training.

I just want to get in a classroom already. This anticipation is killing me…

I’ve got a poem coming for ya’ll, that is, if I survive this day haha

While I’m here, does anyone have any new substitute tips for me? Bless ya girl with some wisdom.

– B. Brown

Today is the day…

I start my Poetry Fundamentals class. I’ve reviewed my readings (which is a crap ton of poems by poets with funny names) and my assignments: analyzing object and list poems and discussing them with my fellow classmates.

And I have two poems due by Sunday for my portfolio.

I’m excited.

I’m nervous.

But I’m hell bent at becoming a refined poet so I’m hungry for this knowledge,

Ready for this challenge.

Alsooooooooo….

My first day of substituting is this Wednesday.

I’m excited.

I’m nervous.

But there’s this woman in my dreams who I aspire to be. She’s been teaching for years, has numerous publications under her belt and has a consisting posting schedule for her website.

These are just some of the steps I’m taking to get to her.

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to feel like I’m in the right place at the right time with the right people.

I’m on my way.

– B. Brown

Digital Bullet Journaling… but for Writers?

So… is anyone else into digital journaling? Ever since I got my Galaxy Tab s3, it’s been my latest obsession. I love notebooks and planners but sadly, I could never stick to them for a variety of understandable ( I swear they are) reasons.

Anyway, I’ve been playing around with some templates that suit a writer’s lifestyle. You know what I mean, word count goals, chapters completed and what not.

I’d like to hear some thoughts. If you do digitally plan or journal, what platform do you use? What device?

– B. Brown

(Photo courtesy of Pinterest. Here’s the link: https://pin.it/5cl27nkdpo5tcx )

What I Learned in Boating School Today is: Literary Theory (Quick Read)

So I just finished up a course in Literary Theory and when I say this was my most difficult course by far, I mean it. No, really, this course had me questioning everything about my writing, my choice of authors, my purpose in life… my soul was wrung for every last drop of conviction it possessed.

But my turmoil wasn’t without reward.

I learned about the four major approaches to literary criticism:

Marxism, which is mainly looks for class struggle and social conflict in a text, and how it reflects history, Deconstruction, which loves to look for the pitfalls of language, laugh and throw it back in our faces in pieces, Feminism, which is exactly what it looks like (and damn, there’s a lot of it in classic texts) and my favorite, Psychoanalytic, formed from Freudian principles and supplemented with the ideas of Lacaniasm.

I don’t want to keep you long, seeing as though there’s a wealth of more entertaining things to read out there, but I want to just stress the importance of these theories really quick. I believe that as a writer, it would behoove you to do a bit of research on these to deepen your understanding of what makes for rich and timeless literature. If you know what the scholars look for, you’ll know what to deliver. The hardest part is figuring out how to deliver it and that’s where these theoretical approaches come in. As you all know, it’s crucial for us to read critically; the principles of these theories will help you do that. I can honestly say that the manuscript I’m currently drafting has gained a few more layers.

If you’d like me to do a mini series, diving deeper into these forms of critiques, let me know in the comments section. We’re all here to learn, grow and share and I’d love to hear your take on these critiques.

-B. Brown

I’ve Returned

and where’ve I been?

easing from under the shade
of my apple tree
whose roots have broken concrete,
whose fruits have fallen
too soon
from the faintest winds,

where have I been?

cowering amongst rotten cores
and tics disguised as seeds
hailing Mary
every time I thought
I heard my mirror speak…

but my reflection wasn’t my own
not that I could even recognize
myself without a tight scarf of smoke

my reflection wasn’t own
I learned that my demons
could shape-shift at will
and they will

where I’ve been
is seeking sanctuary
in the calloused hands of hope
savoring grains of salt
praying that the price I paid
to uproot everything I know
will return to me
seven-fold
and glimmering
with the honest of golds

and truth be told
where I’ve been
now seems eons away
and dozens of crates of mold
I was cheaply sold ago
before I chose to make
that harassing Holy Ghost
my home

home,
here, amongst potential
around the influential
facing a promising venue
of what I could do
what I should do
and will do

I’m here,
found again
never to be lost again…

– B. Brown

[image courtesy of Pinterest]

Scenes

their wics flickered

like cautious stars

and her moving mind,

the heaviest hole

– B. Brown

(image courtesy of Pinterest)