PhillyCAM is people powered media including a community media center, TV station and FM Radio Statio. Listen here to my interview and hear some smokin' hot tunes with Monnette Sudler, Joilet Harris and the RetroLove band.
In other exceptional news, my poem Fire was chosen as the winner of the Philadelphia Writers' Conference Spring Forward poetry contest! This garners me a partial scholarship to the conference, a slot as a featured reader and some much needed inspiration for some new poetry after RetroLove. You can read more about the award and the conference here. All of which goes to prove that sometimes you can master something really scary...by writing about it.
Only a small fire but not where fire should be—
the wick of a candle, hearth, heart—
a fire uncontained, unattended.
I was reading. Of course, I was reading,
and making tea which I had forgotten.
It was a good book.
No doubt I put the sound of the fire crackling
into the story I was reading, the way
you put a ringing phone into a dream.
Crackling—sometimes the cliché, a crackling fire,
is true—fire sounds like snapped branches
or crumpled drafts of a bad poem.
Curious at the sound, now loud enough
to pull me from my book in which
I carefully marked my place.
Fire on the stove.
How to douse it? A word I use now but then
only out or just the desire for the fire to be out
because I am sure I had no words
when the fire inhaled, doubled,
spilled toward me, skimmed across
the inside of my arms
as I lifted the thing that burned.
Then it was out. Extinguished.
Sodden in the kitchen sink.
I wonder now when I would have chosen
to abandon the kitchen. The house.
The book with the dog-eared page.
How high would the flames have needed to be?
How intense the heat, angry and consuming?
Or a child I needed to save?
Fire. Slur. Scuffle.
One small thing.
Fueled. Repeated. Escalated.
Fight the fire or flee.
And no time to take anything
© Beth Feldman Brandt, 2017