Showing posts with label brandel france de bravo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brandel france de bravo. Show all posts

Monday, September 14, 2015

Provenance - Brandel France de Bravo (Washington Writer's Publishing House)

Today's book of poetry:
Provenance.  Brandel France de Bravo.  Washington Writer's Publishing House.  Washington, D.C.. 2008

Winner of the Washington Writer's Publishing House Poetry Prize


Today's book of poetry has taken our entire staff to a remote lake near Georgian Bay.  You can only get to this retreat by boat -- and you can't leave unless you are a Marilyn Bell type swimmer or you can wrest the boat keys from my cold dead hand.

We started the morning with French toast and bacon and then it was into the canoes.

Now the crew is muscle-sore and quiet.  It's how I like them best.  They are scattered over the furniture like exhausted rugs.  We are listening to Jan Garabeck blow the bejuses out of his saxophone while Ustad Fateh Ali Kahn's voice contemplates the universe one note at a time.

Today's assignment is Brendel France de Bravo's Provenance.  What an adventure.  France de Bravo's poetry is a carnival ride.  These poems range through a curio vision of the universe. Everything she sees is interesting -- or France de Bravo makes it so.

Apricot

A sarcastic Egyptian always speaks
of apricot season, which comes and vanishes
faster than dreams over morning coffee.
Oh sure, he'll take care of it -- in apricot season
which falls between manana and the cows coming home,
a time so fleeting, ephemeral,
it might as well be never
or what we cannot recover:
the buoyant forever when we held our noses
underwater where no one could see
and touched tongues for the first time;
the certainty that certain transgressions
meant no turning back.
It isn't innocence we miss
but the thrilling moment that we let go,
a stem splitting from the branch, fruit in free-fall.

Cecilia was the first among us to ripen,
breasts at eight, and shortly after
rendezvous with boys in the bushes.
No one called her "slut."
She floated above us
like Mary in a procession,
her wooden robes fluttering in the wind.
We supplicants longed for a guilty glimpse
of her panties, her early bloomers,
named for Amelia Jenks Bloomer,
who like Cecilia was ahead of her time.
While others fought for suffrage,
an end to slavery,
she dreamed of simpler underwear,
a garment so free, it might as well be nothing,
loose as an apricot,
that precocious apple,

Lolita of a peach.

...

France de Bravo provides an Abridged Etymologies and Related Words along with her Notes at the end of Provenance and this is helpful information but it is also a little like finding a sugary surprise as a treat.  Long before the time you reach the end of this book you realize Brandel France de Bravo is as nimble as Charlie Parker playing "Ko-ko", which conveniently enough is now blaring around the room.

I take my staff on holiday but they have to listen to MY music.  It drives poor Milo bonkers, his latest favourite band use hammers and spent ammunition.  I just played Yusef Lateef's "Don't Blame Me" and Milo wasn't amused at all.

France de Bravo would get the joke and make a good poem out of it.

Fornicate

Linguistic equivalent of latex gloves, the delicately intransitive
fornicate sounds sterile, scientific next to its censored Anglo-Saxon cousin,
which Shakespeare avoided but evoked with firk  -- to strike.

The Christian who's saved knows there's nothing highfalutin, exalted
about fornication, sensing perhaps its lowly origins in the vaulted
underground where Rome's dregs dwelled and trolled for sex.
Rather he hears in fornicate satanic seduction:
the way of the bifurcated tail, the hump of illicit union.

I believe in redemption, too, and in resurrection of the word

locked in its Latinate basement, outshined by its sensational
relation -- all penetration, fight and fist. I welcome
fornication -- crusty and soft as bread from a brick oven,
round as te amo and the whores of Pompeii. I listen for it
like a copulatory cry from the hotel room next to mine:
one column rising up
to meet another,
to make an arch.

...

These poems are each a small fable, a needed lesson, a deeper understanding of a corner that needed some light.  France de Bravo dances us outside of our usual perceptions, brings us to new ground, leads us by the hand.

Two of our interns have fallen asleep, we're now listening to Stanley Turrentine With The 3 Sounds playing "Since I Fell For You."  The interns have both fallen into that saxophone slumber that comes after canoeing across a big lake and back again and then having a big soft leather couch under you. And that's okay, they both told us what they thought of Provenance before drifting off.  Full consensus, even Milo nodded yes.

Oslo, Summer Solstice

That Norway night when day
held on -- a handshake
turned kiss --
I watched you sleep
because I couldn't.
How different we are.
In your country, the joke goes,
people say good-bye without leaving;
in mine they leave without good-byes.

In the half-empty, half-full
light, where darkness
and morning exchange vows,
I heard
the glass is love.

...

Today's book of poetry had a great deal of fun in Brandel France de Bravo world.  You will too. These poems are optimistic prayers full of hope and reason.  This is France de Bravo's first book of poetry, more recently she has published a second collection Mother, Loose.

Brandel France de Bravo
Photo: Stephen R. Brown

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brandel France de Bravo’s second collection of poems Mother, Loose won the Accents Publishing chapbook prize in 2014 and was published in 2015. Her first book, Provenance, won the Washington Writers’ Publishing House prize in 2008 and was a finalist for the ForeWord Book of the Year Awards that same year. Her poetry has appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Black Warrior Review, theCimarron Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Fairy Tale Review, Fugue, Gulf Coast, The Kenyon Review, and Poet Lore, as well as in various anthologies, including The Beacon Best of 1999, Creative Writing by Men and Women of All Colors. In 2009, the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities awarded Brandel the Larry Neal Writers’ prize in poetry. She has also received an artist fellowship in poetry from the D.C. Commission on the Arts, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. As a member of Washington Writers’ Publishing House, she has acted as senior poetry editor and organizer of the fundraising event, the Writers Ball. To read recently published poems, click here.

BLURBS
Sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, sharply etched and sharply worded,Provenance is a book of alphabets and fables, of narrative precision and verbal passion. Across a host of exotic locales, and through the labyrinth of etymology, Brandel France de Bravo is a poet of restless travel and linguistic inquiry—what luck for the reader who accompanies her on the voyage!
     -  Campbell McGrath

In Provenance, Brandel France de Bravo writes with urgency of continuous displacement, an exile status rendering her exquisitely sensitive to the textures of daily life. She is forever a stranger among those who do not ask “where I’m from, but where I’ve just come from, / which country I left last.” At home in many cultures, at home in none, this gifted poet transforms a search for identity into a voyage through language, and finds her true roots in the alphabet letters that generate experience. This is a remarkable first book, and an important one in our time.
    -  Grace Schulman


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DISCLAIMERS

Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.

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Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Mother, Loose - Brandel France de Bravo (Accents Publishing)

Today's book of poetry:
Mother, Loose.  Brandel France de Bravo.  Accents Publishing.  Lexington, Kentucky.  2015.
(Winner of the Judge's Choice Award for the Accents Publishing 2014 Poetry Chapbook Contest)



Brandel France de Bravo is Mother Goose for our new age.  Every one of the poems in Mother, Loose is worthy of keen attention.

de Bravo reinvents the world we used to know by welcoming in the reader with familiar and open arms, cookies in the oven, a warm fire in the hearth.  Then she lowers her excellent boom.

A Perfect Sacrifice (still it lingered near)

Spring had come and the pear trees, sheared of their white
blossoms, were flaunting new green skin. Mary decided to skip
school. She called the lamb and told her to meet at Nail-like-
Gnu. The Vietnamese lady pumiced Mary's heels and snipped
at the lamb's cuticles. Mary and the lamb picked "Teat Peach"
polish and flip-flopped out the door, cotton puffs between their
toes. The security guard at Victoria's Secret said lambs were not
allowed so Mary went in alone. She came out a few minutes later
carrying a big pink shopping bag, two thongs inside. At the Food
Court they got diet sodas and headed to Mary's house because
her parents were at work. "Let's try on each other's clothes," said
Mary. "Awesome," said the lamb. Mary wrapped herself in the
lamb's fleece. "God, it's so warm." The lamb put on Mary's plaid
kilt, navy sweater, and knee socks. "I'm gonna follow the rules
now," the lamb giggled, giving a little salute. Mary looked at the
lamb, and a current ran through her, more powerful than the
sight of Nick's number pulsing on her cell phone. It was like the
thread-pull between her legs whenever Nick's breath filled her
ear. Only, the hollow feeling was in her stomach and spreading
to every part of her. The fleece slid from Mary's shoulders. She
touched her mouth, saliva gathering at the corners. It was a maw.

...

de Bravo's ability to know exactly what a knife might say alone in the dark late at night might be unsettling for some.  For us, here at Today's book of poetry, it is what we live for, it augured great things.

These poems are mostly playful until you realize they are not playful at all.  de Bravo is one tough nut, a champion wit with a sense of humour like a good dry red.  She is relentless.

Jack Spratt

He looked like six o'clock
and she the face.
Together they were bacon
--sinew and glisten--
and called a platter home.
She licked the welcome mat.
He licked the light switches.
She licked his arm chair.
He licked her vanity.
One day, in the pantry,
their tongues met
and they knew salty-sweet,
felt time running in place.
Afterwards, Jack lit a cigarette.

The rest is a blur, like glass
smeared with butter.
Jack remembers fetching his pail.
He remembers the whoosh and flash,
spitting heat, and his mother's words.
Never throw water on a grease fire.

...

Today's book of poetry would borrow a phrase from the great Canadian poet David McFadden and tell you that these are "Poems Worth Knowing."

de Bravo isn't afraid of saying the harsh, hard, real thing and that is always worth reading.

Some of these poems sing - literally.   Brandel France de Bravo carves nursery rhymes out of slightly different timber, they are of a different contour, she speaks in a language all her own using a vocabulary we already know.  We recognize it right away.

This is how people speak when they are leading the way.

In The Arms of Morpheus II

Others clean and comb.
She has only to eat,
excrete. She feels most
in the driver's seat,
hands at 10:00 and 2:00,
when gripping
the remote control
with one, bottle
of morphine
in the other.
......................................

It's not enough,
she insists.
a whole unopened bottle
is not enough.
Are you in pain?
No, no, she says,
irritation in her voice.
Not enough
to put an end
to this

There's a fist in poignant
.....................................

Her last dose two days
ago, the black gnats
in each iris turned fat flies,
she doesn't look at me,
only a spot on the ceiling,
a driver reading the road
signs, afraid to miss the exit.

...

de Bravo sure has mastered the big punch in the head with the velvet gloved fist.  Mother, Loose is powerful stuff, playful and unflagging, full of mystic wisdom and sartorial memoir.  It's all in here and doled out like candy in easily digestible future tales of lore.

Today's book of poetry really liked this book.

Brandel France de Bravo

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brandel France de Bravo is the author of Provenance, which won the 2008Washington Writers’ Publishing House prize in poetry and was a ForeWord Book of the Year finalist. Her poems, which have been nominated for thePushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and essays have appeared in various journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, The Cincinnati Review, Fairy Tale Review,Gulf Coast, and Seneca Review. She is co-author of Trees Make the Best Mobiles: Simple Ways to Raise your Child in a Complex World and the editor of Mexican Poetry Today: 20/20 Voices. A graduate of the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College with a master’s in public health, she works for a consumer health organization in Washington, D.C.

BLURB
Full of ripe, aching music, Brandel France de Bravo’s MOTHER, LOOSE captures the overlap between what we chant as comfort and what we choose as elegy. Nursery rhymes become impishly twisted: “Social climber,/ they called me,” Humpty Dumpty admits, while Mary and her lamb pick out “Teat Peach” polish to get their nails done. But another mother hovers, her “dry cough flowering” into malignancy, and a walk beneath the about-to-bloom cherry trees of DC becomes a bittersweet recognition of “Resurgence…as after / dormancy, remission, as after a sleep / we knew we would wake from.” Deft and heartbreaking, these poems ask us to step out from under the sheltering wing of Mama Goose, and into the arms of Morpheus. Let this collection cradle your heart in its hand.
     ~Sandra Beasley, author of I WAS THE JUKEBOX and COUNT THE WAVES


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Poems cited here are assumed to be under copyright by the poet and/or publisher.  They are shown here for publicity and review purposes.  For any other kind of re-use of these poems, please contact the listed publishers for permission.