Poetry by Gaylord Brewer
Gaylord Brewer is the author of fifteen previous books of poetry, fiction, criticism, and cookery, including Country of Ghost (Red Hen, 2015) and The Poet’s Guide to Food, Drink, & Desire (Stephen F. Austin, 2015). His poems have appeared in Best American Poetry and The Bedford Introduction to Literature. His many international residencies include Hawthornden Castle (Scotland) and the Global Arts Village (India), and he has taught in Russia, Kenya, England, and the Czech Republic. Brewer was awarded a Tennessee Arts Commission Fellowship in 2009. He is a native of Louisville, Kentucky, and has been a professor at Middle Tennessee State University since 1993.
The four poems published here are from a new collection, Goodbye, Baby, forthcoming soon from Accents Publishing.
“When your mother lifted you from the pillow”
When your mother lifted you from the pillow
at 6:14 a.m., she knew. I pleaded for one more
selfish day, but the pain… How brave you were.
Those hours, dear god, I won’t speak of them.
In afternoon the deer arrived, one the young buck
with horns still furred, to announce the end
of our bartered time, the doctor with her trade
of poison for cash. I won’t speak of what followed,
each staggering intimacy, garbled whisper.
Brave, beautiful girl. How to fathom the world
as it was now. Seventeen days since I lowered you
in my arms, lay you in the hard dark earth.
“Focus on mammals—abundance of squirrel,”
Focus on mammals—abundance of squirrel,
steady migration of deer. Recently at the creek
mink, otter, single inquisitive armadillo,
three young raccoon and parent. At the house
the infamous den of gray fox two years ago,
woodchuck, possum, skunk, fieldmouse, rabbit,
evidence of mole, once an overnight guest
of brown bat on the porch, more rarely coyote
and wild boar. Yesterday bobcat. Lean, exquisite,
taut with attention, methodical between
our blooming crepe myrtle before it leapt
high for prey. A bobcat so near Lucy’s grave.
“Third week of November and still no proper frost,”
Third week of November and still no proper frost,
though rains have left the morning chill, left blue sky
striped by rafts of cloud, left wind soughing the petulant
leaves of the white oak. Three windchimes twirl
their tuneless song. I am threadbare and underdressed
and crave the cold on my skin, this small recklessness.
Autumn light slants lawn and fenceposts. Soon I will dress,
navigate into the world of men, barter my hours
with much smallish talk. At the blustery creekside,
the female downy, the mallard couple, even the belted
kingfisher, lately much agitated in flight and warning,
crown tousled, all tolerant, almost as if I were welcome.
“The acclaimed one-man show of 1914, the following year”
The acclaimed one-man show of 1914, the following year
ambulance driver in Flanders beginning in April. Impulsive,
prone to depression, by November the mustard gas,
the discharge, the nervous breakdown. By 1919, his crisis
of faith in the work and two hundred paintings destroyed—
few canvases today remain. At this time the fasting begins,
spirit quest to experience those colors “not perceptible
to the physical eye.” But you know all this, lessons discerned
or dismissed, know I am ardent admirer for as long
as the 35 years of his life. Edward Middleton Manigault
died of starvation on August 31, 1922. Whether his is a
household name depends, then as now, upon the household.