Brandtwords

SAGE- Pre-Order the Book!

2012-01-15T10:07:00.007-05:00

At long last, we are getting ready to send Sage to the printer in the next month or so. Little did I know that actually writing the poems was only one step on this long, but gratifying, road to a finished book with my collaborative partner Claire Owen.

We've decided to tackle the printing and distribution ourselves partly because we are control freaks, partly because we are on a deadline for the May 2012 exhibition at the Chicago Botanic Garden, and partly because poetry publishing is such a crap shoot, even for a book that isn't four-color, an unusual shape, and based on an 17th century botanical reference book.

It would be great if you can email us and let us know if you are planning to buy a copy (for about $20) so we can figure out how many to print. We hope to have the book in hand by late March. You can email me directly here.

Sage moves from the innocence of childhood and spring (see the opening poem, Air, in my December 2010 post) to the realities of winter, aging...and regret. Here is the poem that opens the last section of the book.

Water

All the words we regret

rise on waves of our own heat,

gather in dark clouds,

suspended.

In winter, they fall.

Each unique --

the chilling remark,

the harsh denial.

They murmur outside

the bedroom window,

slick and treacherous

blocking the last way

out.

Wedding Bells!

2011-11-30T17:36:00.007-05:00

I did the wedding thing 22 years ago and at my wedding were my dear college buddy, Arthur Cohen, and his partner Daryl Otte. So you can say it has been a long time coming but a wonderful day when Arthur and Daryl were married in New York City on July 24, 2011, the day same-sex marriage became legal in New York.

It was, as they wrote, a day fraught with potential disaster, "700+ Type-A gay couples with some serious pent-up nuptials-demand, 100 degree heat, a NYC bureaucracy that is being made by the mayor to work on a Sunday in the summer, and whatever the lovers-of-personal-freedom-but-haters-of this-particular-expression-of-personal freedom, have in store." Nonetheless, they hopped a shuttle from their vacation spot in Cape Cod and got hitched, well, without a hitch.

I was honored to honor their not-so-subtle request for a wedding poem. As one of the long-time married, I was moved by the thought of affirming, or re-affirming, long-time love.

Mazel tov, my friends.

Time and Tide

- for Arthur and Daryl

July 24, 2011

Gulls sweep the sky,

points of white unified in magnetic motion,

the way water glances, falls,

becomes waves.

Before they charted the tides,

the ocean knew -- already wedded

to the lip of sand, the way we were drawn to

the spark and shimmer,

pull and release.

We know --

still we want to name this,

chart the change and constancy of days and years,

stand and say we will, we still will,

we always will,

and kiss.

(c) Beth Feldman Brandt, 2011

Walkin' the High Wire

2011-11-01T17:48:00.007-04:00

Just back from two weeks of 24/7 poetry writing at Ragdale in Chicago. New projects, new poems, exhibition plans, more news to come. But for now...

Some of you know me as a poet. Some of you know me as the Executive Director of the Stockton Rush Bartol Foundation that supports arts and culture in Philadelphia. A few of you even know me as both.

Well, this morning at the annual conference of Delaware Valley Grantmakers (along with Philadelphia's nonprofit partners) I came out as a poet, big time, when I had the privilege of kicking off the conference with a poem. They asked me and three other poets to respond to the conference theme, "Holding Together in High Wire Times." So of course, me being me, I started with some research on the definition of 'balance' which included "an object that is stationary."

I started thinking about whether, in the nonprofit world, the philanthropic world, or even our own lives, is that something we want to aspire to? Or do we just keep walking the high wire?

Balance

Find it the young men, their low-slung jeans

and unstrung shoes, shuttling down the handrails.

Above, the El expresses itself down Broad Street,

expresses us up to to the high floor hustle

where the window washer, swaying on his twin pivots

takes a swipe at clarity.

On 5th Street, she lifts the steel window shade,

sweeps the daybreak, dust swirling to the Centro rhythm

as the 47 spins its wheels through the Market,

awnings unfurled in the commotion of commerce.

No point of stillness in this city circus --

rapid transit of mass and weight and gravity

the push and pull that deflects our progress

diverts us with forces that are not enough

and too much, and we feel

too much and not enough, but stay anyway,

step out each day into air,

risk the fall, are carried away

ride this turbulent City.

(c) Beth Feldman Brandt 2011

New Construction! New Website!

2011-09-29T09:43:00.000-04:00

I admit there has not been too much poetry writing going on lately but I am jazzed to announce the completed construction of my new website: www.brandtwords.com .

Blogs are great and cheap and easy but not so good at showing multiple things at one time or keeping really important projects (like the Sage book) up front without posting them over and over.

The new site, designed by Liz Bradfield and Pelagic Design (poet, naturalist and stellar web designer), lets you see a bunch of poems and projects. You can even listen to recordings of two of my poems that have been set to music. (By the way, Pelagic has some artist friendly design rates -- get in touch with them for that new website or design project you have been putting off.)

The blog will keep on keepin' on every month or so but is now redesigned and accessed through the website. Check it out, click around, browse through some new poems, and let me know what still might need some tweaking.

Also happy to report that I will be heading back to Ragdale for another writing residency in late October to start a new project. Stay tuned!

Earthquakes and Hurricanes

2011-08-25T18:20:00.000-04:00

News for those of you who've been following the Sage saga! I just got an amazing mock-up of the book from my creative partner, Claire Owen, and now we switch to printing/publication mode. And look forward to an exhibition at the Chicago Botanic Garden in May 2012 of Sage and other related work. Put it on your calendar all of you in the Windy City.

Speaking of which, it has been a crazy week here in Philadelphia. First, a hail storm. Next day, a simultaneous flash of lighting and thunder that shakes the house...and there goes the electricity. I guess you heard about the rare phenom of an earthquake that became a Philly bonding experience up and down Broad Street as people relayed updates from their iPhones so we all knew we weren't crazy or suffering from collective vertigo. Now we wait for the rare Northeast hurricane.

I am not one for omens or cosmic messages but jeez...what's next... a plague of locusts? Clearly, someone is doing a meteorological mash-up and leaving us all stunned.

In the weather vein (small pun there, very small), I have been playing around with new poems now that Sage is in Claire's capable hands. A.V. Christie, my poetry mentor and provocateur (provocateuse?), challenged me to write a ten-line poem that was all one sentence. Well, I doubled that and considered the ways in which nature (and the rest of us) struggle, day-to-day to be our best selves...with varying degrees of success.

Flood Stage

When the Mississippi crests far above the flood stage,

it eventually floods itself back into its tributaries

and becomes one itself -- a tributary I mean -- no longer

the thing flowed into but the opposite of that,

so there must be a moment or more likely

an hour or possible a whole day, when waves meet

themselves returning from where they have just

been and, if they were us, they might recognize the curve

of a bank or a low branch and be surprised to find

that they have not made any

progress at all, despite

the swift churn of their efforts that, actually

are effortless since this is what a river is

meant to do -- flow I mean -- except now

in the extreme, which is when we show

what we really were all along and maybe

we are not all singsong majesty but something

else entirely that we can mostly contain and even,

most days, make some good out of, which surely

outweighs the days when the currents

overwhelm us.

Visual Poetry for Sale!

2011-07-11T06:55:00.000-04:00

I am so proud to announce that the broadside of "Sage" is now available for sale through Turtle Island Press. You can see a larger version of the print on their site by clicking on the image to the left.

The broadside, an 11"x 14" limited edition digitally printed with letter press type, is the first fruit of my creative collaboration with artist Claire Owen.

Two summers ago, I was in a writing workshop and met Claire, a book artist whose work I had admired. Being a poet has made me bolder than I used to be, so after the class was over, I emailed Claire and went out to her studio which is a mini-museum of paintings, hand-bound books, and natural artifacts tucked into a Victorian home in Mt Airy.

This chance meeting has turned into full-grown collaboration. We are hard at work on our artist book combining my poems and Claire's images, including this poem and 20 others. In the meantime, Claire has created a subtle interpretation of Sage in this elegant print.

The print is in a signed and numbered edition of 30 of which about 20 are still for sale. Prints are $75 and can be purchased by emailing me here. Purchase can include hand delivery by the poet if you live in Philly!

Considering I usually spend my creative time alone with a blank notebook, collaboration is totally energizing!

Take a look and post up your comments below to let me know what you think.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T19:59:00.000-04:00

As Mother's Day winds down, I thought of a poem I wrote (another in the "Darwin" series) that was based on a photograph of my great-grandmother and great-aunts taken in Russia sometime before the turn of the last century.

A few years ago, my sisters, our daughters, and nieces had gathered for my mother's birthday and I had written this as a birthday gift for my mother. Although I didn't know it then, it was also the last time I saw my dad before he passed away.

With love and appreciation for all of the women in my life, mothers and others.

Long-lost characters

In the heirloom photo, three women pose,

sepia and close-mouthed, enduring

bad teeth or a grim Kiev winter.

The matriarch, whose name no one remembers,

wears a white knotted head scarf

and clenches her right hand in her lap.

Rose, slim-waisted and straight-backed,

challenges the camera.

Her sister, Miriam, in high-collared black,

looks aside.

They all have our eyes.

What would they make of us,

their great-greats and their greats,

with our bared bellies and loose-limbed androgyny,

our husbands and wives who came here

from not here and found us to love,

our bilingual babies,

our speed-read Seders and Easter baskets

and Christmas trees in the living room.

We are the ones who return to the house

our father built, amazing him each time

with all the women he has spawned.

In the backyard, we snap ourselves,

bountiful and large, our heads

blond and dark and grey,

leaning together, laughing at Zoey

swatting her mother’s dangly earring,

smiling our wide white American smiles

at our great-greats and their greats,

posing for the story they will make of us.

(c) Beth Feldman Brandt, 12/7/2007

Want to get in touch? Email me here.

Maybe Spring

2011-04-05T18:36:00.001-04:00

Exciting news on the collaboration front. The broadside print of Sage with artist Claire Owen is being proofed as we speak. We should have it in hand in a month or so, and it will be for sale on Claire's website, Turtle Island Press.

But in the meantime, something old/new...

While poking around my parent's bookshelves a few years back, I came across a copy of Darwin's On the Origin of Species that had belonged to my grandmother. On the flyleaf was written her maiden name, Sadie Kesselman, 1919. Each page had a heading that extracted some important phrase from the chapter.

I wrote a series of poems with titles drawn from these page headings -- things like "The Importance of Barriers" or "Long-Lost Characters." This was my first foray into a body of work that shared a theme, a process which has proven to be a consistent way of working for me.

Recently I was looking over some of these poems and found this one from 2006. After a roller coaster week of snow, 80 degree weather, and violent thunderstorms, this one seemed fit for the season.

I also send it out to my daughter, born on the Ides of March, a young teenager when I wrote this, now turned 20.

"Effects of Climate"

The pendulum sun swings further

each day, gives way to gravity

and lands back home by dinnertime.

Spring wears me out.

All that potential requiring constant vigilance.

As if it's my job, my responsibility

to see each leaf, each blade of grass,

safely to the solstice.

March takes and gives -- the way

nursing a baby leaves you sated

and drowsy and ravenously hungry

all at once.

We are guardians lulled by new warmth,

caught unprepared when the sun burns

with hot June adolescence.

What did we know of this --

late snows, growling thunder, false spring.

How could we have known all it takes

to grow a canopy of green?

Want to be in touch? Email me here.

Provenance

2011-03-03T14:28:00.001-05:00

Anyone who has watched "Antiques Roadshow" knows that it is not really the object that has value but its provenance. Value depends on where that object came from, who owned it, or its presence at some notable event in history, all carefully documented.

I am telling you this for a reason.

For those of you who are following the progress of "Sage", my collaborative book of poetry with artist Claire Owen, you know that this work is based on John Gerard's "The Herbal, or General History of Plants", 1633 edition. I was reading through the many introductory sections which give credit to generous donors (yes, that was the same in 1633) and include a section that describes the update of the 1633 edition by Thomas Johnson of the original 1597 Gerard text.

While slogging through the Olde English typeface and 's's that are written as 'f's, I realized that Johnson was accusing Gerard of stealing most of the work in this book from an earlier Herbal. I checked with my favorite Chicago librarian Ed Valauskas, who confirmed that, while taking past work from another scientist and building on it was an accepted practice, doing it without giving proper credit was pretty much plagiarism even back then.

So had I based my whole book on a stolen text? And more importantly, did it matter?

This poem won't be in the book but considers the question of provenance and how much we care about what was, rather than what is.

Provenance

No clear lines

of history or family,

of sale or charity,

or theft.

There are gaps

in ownership, questions

of judgement, disputes

over value.

What you see,

spot-lit and sacred,

may not be

what it claims

to have been,

but only

what it is.

No reason

to hold dear

except the depth

of blue, the flow

of line, the balance

in this moment,

in the next.

2010-12-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

Air

Back from a two-week residency at Ragdale, an artist's retreat outside of Chicago. Pretty cold outside, but filled with warmth inside. I wish everyone could have the chance to spend two weeks doing what they absolutely love, surrounded by others who totally get why you love it. Plus beautifully-prepared food, good conversation and a fireplace. What a gift.

Sage, my current poetry project grew wildly while I was there. People talk about the "Ragdale effect" through which you create a year's worth of work in two weeks which is pretty close to what I was able to do during my residency.

A big accomplishment was writing the four poems, one for each element/season, that will define the four sections of the paired 'herbal' poems. (Check out the November Sage blog post for more info on these.)

I know it's really winter but here is the Air poem that will head up the Spring collection of poems. I am not a big cold weather person so let's remember light and green -- and consider all the ways we can open ourselves up in the coming year.

Air

Fills her lungs, overflows

to the space around her heart, her throat,

the cavity behind her eyes. Inside

the motion of molecules, her edges

diffuse to a bouyant clarity.

It is spring. The trees exhale their green

lifeblood as she folds into the mist

that cycles from ground to sky.

Through dark blue nights,

she courts the constellations--

Aries, Virgo -- held weightless

within their virtues. Nothing

to collide with, nothing to hold on to,

no way to come down.

And if you really want that winter feeling, check out my fellow Ragdale resident Michael McColly's very cool blog here.

Want to be in touch? Email me here.

VOTE for (My) Poetry

2010-12-01T12:10:00.000-05:00

VOTING CLOSED! Thanks to everyone who cast their vote, tried to cast their vote a few more times, told their friends, tried to vote a few more times. It looks like "Fault Lines" finished a strong second. The winner was a 12 year old girl from Chile. How cool is that? Keep checking out the Broadsided Press site, become a vector, help get poetry into unusual places! Thanks again to all.

My poem, 'Fault Lines', is a finalist for the Haiku-Year-in-Review (HYIR)- Winter Season sponsored by Broadsided Press. The winning poems (one for each season) will be combined with visual images and posted as broadsides on January 1. People like you all over the world, known as 'vectors', print and post these broadsides every month.

Poets were invited to write haiku that responded to one event over the past year. My poem was written in honor of my brother-in-law, Ed Nelson, who helped manage the phone banks in Miami's Little Haiti as people tried to find their families after the earthquake.

Fault lines crack, crumble,

swallow cries crossing oceans.

Calls go unanswered.

So if you are so inclined, go to Broadsided Press and vote for a poem to represent each season --maybe even mine for Winter--and become a vector while you are it at! Just remember, unlike in Philadelphia, you can only vote once!

Thanks!

Sage

2010-11-08T19:27:00.000-05:00

A longer post than usual here but there's a new project I'm working on that takes a little explaining...

A while back, I spent some time digging around the archive at Bartram's Gardens which included Bartram's compilation of herbal remedies. This got me interested in historic collections of 'herbals' and I found my way to the Rare Book Collection at the Lenhardt Library of the Chicago Botanic Garden during my residency last year at Ragdale, an artists' retreat outside of Chicago.

With the help of librarian Ed Valauskas at the Gardens, I discovered John Gerard's "The Herball: The Generall Historie of Plants" (1633) and was inspired to begin a collection of poems which paired 'found poems' excavated from Gerard's text with poems written in conversation with the found work.

This has become quite an undertaking which will culminate in a collaborative artist book with the amazing Philadelphia book artist Claire Owen. I am off to Ragdale again in December to move the project along but thought I'd start sharing the work and hear what you think. Feel free to comment -- this is still a work in progress.

The first poem below (in italics) is a found poem. Imagine taking the text from one plant's description and blacking out words (like an old-time censor of WWII letters) until what is left makes a poem. The second poem (in the non-blog world, they will be laid out side by side) is written in response to the found poem.

More about the project as it unfolds, but in the meantime, here is a small taste of the title poem, "Sage" which considers those family secrets that often remain unacknowledged, at least out loud.

Sage

End of memory

The secret, no doubt

as it should be, leaves.

Ashes

wrapped in linen

hold grief.

Gone and with you, the secrets

you had held hard and deep

as stones under water, and we,

with the wisdom of children,

felt the ripples, averted our eyes,

diverted our words,

all our lives drawn to things

at the edge of our sight

like the flicker of minnows

we lured with string

and bits of bread but never

caught.

Want to be in touch? Email me here.

Parallelism

2010-10-03T10:54:00.000-04:00

I had just about forgotten about my poem "Parallelism" being published by "Quay: A Journal of the Arts", when it arrived in the mail last week. (Yes, it is the Spring 2009 issue. Apparently, it's hard times for poetry journals as well.)

Its arrival coincided with a conversation I had with a friend who is juggling work, travel, partner, family -- not to mention striving to make time for a creative life. Well, maybe I have this conversation with lots of friends. Maybe all the time.

But I do think that there is a frustration particular to my artist friends as they try to find time for the quiet mind to switch from left brain to right, to sit with the part of their life that is life-giving, life-saving, and utterly elusive.

Parallelism

She had mastered the ability
to read Adrienne with her right hand
while collecting the remnants
of daily life with the left.

On Fridays, she sorted words like laundry:
plate and table to the left,
grace and hunger to the right.
Some demanded definition.
Others sprawled across her desk
like sullen teenagers, daring to be defined.

Once on a late train from Baltimore,
her ghost floated over the Chesapeake.
Mirror-flipped, her words tumbled right to left,
fluent in a foreign tongue, exotic as silk,
until the train reached home.

A trick of the eye sees parallels converge
like train tracks far beyond the station.
But she knows what is true
and what she keeps leaving behind.

Beth Feldman Brandt

Want to be in touch, email me here.

Amazing Grace

2010-04-26T15:45:00.000-04:00

I recently had the chance to hear Kay Ryan, the US Poet Laureate, read her work at Delaware County Community College. As she said, there is no requirement for a Poet Laureate to have a project but "they would very much appreciate it if you did." She attended community college and has taught remedial English for many years, so decided to highlight the opportunities that they afford ('afford' in more ways than one) during her tenure. She will only be doing readings at community colleges so keep an eye out for her at a community college near you.

Ryan spoke about how she feels the most interesting things in poetry (and in life) happen at the edges. She writes poems with very short lines but great depth, exposing all the edges to scrutiny with sort of a 'bring it on' bravado. She also investigates phrases we take for granted and tries to juxtapose new meanings on them. So, with a nod to Kay Ryan...

Amazing Grace

Sunset over a blue ocean
won't do it.

Neither will a candle lit
against the darkness
or a cool hand on
a fevered forehead.

It has to be more
than lingering last notes,
a small kindness,
dignity in adversity.

Not generosity
or forbearance.
Certainly not love.

This is the least
she would expect,
although she is pleased
anyone thinks of her
at all anymore.

Beth Feldman Brandt 2009

Thaw

2010-02-27T11:46:00.000-05:00

It's been a helluva a winter in Philadelphia -- almost 80 inches of snow and it's only the beginning of March.
I am not a winter person.

Anyway, I've spent some of my snowbound days reading a new book of poetry by Liz Bradfield entitled "Approaching Ice". Liz is a naturalist who has spent time in Alaska and other cold places, and has created a stunning book of poems that trace the journeys of polar explorers interspersed with moments of personal reflection and insight. It is a book that made me thankful that my biggest problems in a blizzard are the line in the supermarket and whether the cable goes out. You can find the book on Amazon or get your local independent bookseller to order you a copy.

A while ago, I was doing some research for a poem when I came across an article that said that there was a 50-50 chance that the polar ice caps would totally melt last summer. I started thinking about what would happen if all those who had been lost in the ice were finally freed...and the poem went from there.

Thaw

If the ice melts, there will be
no floods, no tidal waves.
No need for sharp metal at the prow.
No tins of meat sealed against the cold.
No one searching. No one awaiting word.

The open waters will unbind
those whom it has held,
now left without landmarks
to find safe passage home.

You are lost to me
on twilight afternoons
when you search past yourself
through black windows,
adrift at the kitchen table
while dinner warms on the stove.

I wait for your return
through ice-strewn waters,
your presence slowly revealed
like toys in the backyard
after a long winter.

Beth Feldman Brandt, 2009

Want to be in touch? Email me here.

Darwin Poetry Project Performances

2010-02-27T11:32:00.000-05:00

"Litt's setting of Brandt's "Transmutation," for cello, violin, and flute,
forcefully welded text and music in illuminating Darwin's stuggle with
faith and science"
-Daniel Webster, The Philadelphia Inquirer , 2/23/2010

The "Dialogues with Darwin" Poetry Project wrapped up last weekend with performances by Network for New Music at the American Philosophical Society in Philadelphia. The range of pieces gave an interesting collection of perspectives on Darwin's life and work. I have to say it was an adventure from beginning to end that culminated in a moving interpretation of my poem "Transmutation" by composer Andrew Litts. There should be a recording posted up at some point (since it was played by a professional ensemble, we can't just throw it up on YouTube) but it the meantime, you can read about it by checking out the review in The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Broad Street Review.

Of course, we don't believe in reviews...except when they are good ones!

Thanks to all of you who came out to the performances or sent long-distance encouragement. Stay tuned for more Darwin collaborations with my now favorite composer.

Want to get in touch? Email me here.

The Ten Suggestions

2010-01-18T11:14:00.000-05:00

In the spirit of Martin Luther King Day and figuring that many of our New Year's resolutions have already gone by the wayside, I thought I would share a poem that seems to provide a different kind of inspiration.

This poem was written in response to a workshop assignment by poet and teacher extraordinaire, A.V. Christie, to write a ten-line poem. After staring at a blank page for a considerable amount of time, I listed everything I could think of that came in 'tens' and landed on The Ten Commandments.

My religious education, such as it was, took place a while ago so I admit to having to google them. And, well, The Ten Commandmants are pretty harsh. So instead, I offer up The Ten Suggestions, some inspirational (and perhaps even attainable) thoughts for the coming year.

Wishing everyone a healthy, warm and creative 2010.

The Ten Suggestions

Let this come first.
What you have can be enough.

Tell the truth if you can.
Take only what is yours to take.

Be steadfast in your love.
Revive what can be saved.

Stop. Rest a bit.
See things for what they are.

Remember who carried you here.
Write their names.

Information on the Dialogues with Darwin performance on February 19 and 21 can be found below.

Want to get in touch? Email me here.

Darwin Poetry Project

2009-12-23T18:32:00.000-05:00

My poem, Transmutation, set to music by composer Andrew Litts, has been selected to be performed by Network for New Music as part of its Darwin Poetry Project on February 19 and 21, 2009. (More information and tickets are available here.) A second setting of the poem by composer Alexis Ford will be given a reading and recorded later in March.

Months ago, I wrote this poem in response to the Dialogues with Darwin exhibition at the American Philosophical Society. These poems were posted online and a select group of student composers chose poems to set to music. These 13 composers then competed for one of five slots to have their work performed by Network for New Music.

For those of you who are aware of my wonky Darwin poetry series, it comes as no surprise that this project caught my eye and captured my imagination.

There is a beautiful letter from Darwin's wife, Emma, in which she writes to him,

"May not the habit in scientific pursuits of believing nothing until it is proved, influence your mind too much in other things which cannot be proved in the same way, & which if true are likely to be above our comprehension...there is danger in giving up revelation..."

Transmutation is inspired from this letter and other writings by Charles Darwin as he wrestled to reconcile his science and his faith.

Transmutation

All of this and all I know are branches,
nature’s chance encounters,
roots of choices, echoed voices speak.

My faith is in the questions.

All of this and all I know are islands,
isolation is illusion,
currents making messengers of seeds.

My faith is in connections.

All of this and all I know is instinct,
habit and inheritance, strict as tides,
modified by reason.

My faith is insufficient.

All of this and all is contradiction,
a shadowy depiction of changing truth
defying proof of vision.

My faith is reconciled.

All of this and all is still unknown.

My faith is endless

All of this and all is possibility.

in endless forms most beautiful.

Copyright: Beth Feldman Brandt 2009