Elyse Brownell's new book Sinkhole won the 2014 Poetry Chapbook Contest by Monkey Puzzle Press. The book is now available for pre-order here.
SEE A PREVIEW Here's what's being said about Sinkhole:
"Elyse Brownell's Sinkhole is a poem-study of loss and the holes that define it (and us, more than we might like to admit). The poem moves in branching directions simultaneously and feels its way as present becomes past and remains an ache of absence in the next present. As the poem looks further into these holes, time opens, and the assumption that 'there is a bottom to memory' becomes questionable."
"Sinkhole is a brilliant, lyrical, evocative exploration of the pain and loss trapped inside the sinkholes of every relationship. Elyse Brownell fearlessly furrows into those holes in search of a missing friend/partner/lover, the ‘you’ of the poems, but the bottom keeps falling away as one absence leads inevitably to another. Sinkhole is a profoundly ambiguous and lyrically haunting journey into the unknown."
— Bob Mayberry, Associate Professor, English, California State University Channel Islands
"There is a kind of writing or writer that is about living on the edge of what wants to be written: without reserve. Elyse Brownell went to the perimeter or brink of a sinkhole, for example, and lay down. What happens when you touch the inside of something that has no outside? How do you return? Jack Kerouac would have loved this book, I think. I did. It is a book from the heart, for you—and anyone else who wants to live wildly and all at once."
"Sinkhole is a beautifully concise poetic meditation on our modern condition, on news of sinkholes under our houses and on the ‘holes’ between us and through us. Elyse Brownell writes with wit and tenderness, integrating quotes from CNN and ABC News and from science, and finding poignant significance in how we try to connect with each other and make meaning. The opening epigraph, ‘it started in the bedroom, like so many things do,’ shows her underlying humor and psychology. These are imagistic untitled poems that accumulate by the short volume’s end to mean much more than the sum of the parts. We can try to ‘talk louder’ and scare away what frightens us, but Brownell walks to look right at our losses—singing them, mourning them, and celebrating them. I love this poetic debut and recommend it highly."
Chris and Elyse got married on October 11, 2014 in Lyons, CO. Below are their vows as read and shared with their friends and family at Stone Mountain Lodge & Cabins. These vows were written separately over the course of their lives. Chris' vows to Elyse
Dearest Elyse, I promise to sing you love’s sweet song; promise to honor your spirit, to never take you for granted, so now whisper to me promise of time past eternity, where we can sleep from now until then—head touching head hearts beat as one, holding hands in slumbered sleep still.
Raindrops falling from leaves to forest floor, a river’s flow across rocks, across the leavings of a life lived full—past carried in body becomes present, becomes now; becomes forever: today is the first day of my life, this simple life. So glad I didn't die before I met you.
Sing to me, lover, sing to me love’s sweet song:
Under eternity; under eternity; under e-ter-ni-ty . . .
A freight chain rolls through dark aspen valley, KC whistle moans, counterpoint to the yip of coyotes hidden in trees while you dream. A beer to start, tears in our eyes. Spoon on rock under yawning night sky, your wing in mine, crow, and tootled roses before the reveal. I promise you more mountains to climb, promise to fly with you, crow, to that grove and whisper quaking aspen golden secrets in October twilight, to sing you songs of waters always receding after the deluge:
The tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth
We’ll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth
What’s lost is lost, we can’t regain what went down in the flood
But happiness to me is you and I love you more than blood
Sing to me, lover, sing to me love’s sweet song:
As the bear sleeps, and Rumi yawls in the night the poetry of our dreams. You made me promise to not wait another lifetime to find you. That promise kept, I make another: I will never let you go; won’t leave you searching under pale sky, won’t leave you lonely for the rest of our lifetimes together. Divine wisdom decreed of us lovers of each other, just as amber attracts straw. There written in blood: you, born to be my bride.
I promise my love for you is real
Moves like this autumn breeze
I promise my love for you is strong
Lord, it brings me to my knees
Sing to me, Elyse, sing to me love’s sweet song:
Think of birds I kept . . . birds I set free . . . along the winding road of my life and I am struck, because all winding roads led me here. Thought all my wanderings were one barbaric yawp into a silent void, but I was wrong. Along the way I found a life of words, found a daughter calls me daddy; found my wolf watches over me at night. And out there on that old road the void sounded back: Fly home, crow, you whispered, and so I winged, made it back home: to you: the love of my life: my lovely Elyse: my Babi. You are the only one.
I promise to watch over you, to be your sentry when you are most vulnerable, when you bleed over the typewriter and pour phrase upon the page. I promise you words when you need them; I’ll promise silence when you don’t. Above all else, I promise to continue to do those things done since I set eyes upon thee: to make you laugh and sometimes to cry; to hold your hand; to dry your eyes; to be your best friend.
Sing to me, wife, sing to me love’s sweet song:
Under eternity; under eternity; under e-ter-ni-ty . . .
And now we hold the bonds of blessed union before those who would witness, them two crows about to become one. But really two crows have always been three, so take my hand with Delia between, your new family waits. Here I surrender you my heart; now I faithfully place it in your hands under eternity. Feel it beat, lover? It beats now in time with yours; it beats now because I love you.
Under eternity . . . Elyse's vows to Chris:
I have phrases and whole pages
memorized
But nothing can be told of love
You must wait until you and I
Are living together.
In the conversation we’ll have
Then…be patient…then.
-Rumi
It might have been you who brought me to Rumi
But it was Rumi that brought me to you.
Chris, You’re the “you” I've been writing to my whole
life. And now I write with you, next to
you, from you. But you mean more to me
than my poems. More than honey to a
buzz, more than sunlit mountain peaks, more than the elks bucking after the
drought, more than a night sky flooding over, more than a place where bones of
life are piled, more than laughter covering all of life’s terrible little
holes.
And though today is the day I literally have walked toward
you, I realize it was you I have been walking toward all along. And now we will walk together, side by side,
until we can no longer walk. And then we
will both listen for the caw of the crow and follow her down.
Some may say we might have met too late in our lives. Perhaps we’re too far gone, far too tired or
hurt to see what we have, to fully appreciate it. But I say we met at the right time, when we
were ready for each other, when I was ready to love this deeply. Although I can’t deny that sometimes I wish
to push time backwards, to have met you sooner, to then be able to love you
longer.
I promise to stand by you, laugh with you, cry with you,
fight with you, make love truer than poetry with you, never leave you or deceive
you and never stop the conversation of us.
You often remind me of a brief moment in time, when we
couldn't be together and I told you not to wait another lifetime to find
me. I meant what I said, but with no
agenda, no intention, just to let you know that it only took me seconds to
realize what a good man you are. And how
I knew, we were meant to find each other in this lifetime. And we have.
When I am with you, I am a better person, a better lover, writer,
friend, mother, daughter, sister, auntie, I am the best version of myself. And your daughter – our doodle, Delia –though
not mine, I know a part of her comes from me, and a part of me comes from her. I am forever changed and always changing and
growing because of her. My love sprouted
roots deeper than I could have ever planted alone allowing us to become
partners, to become a family, to become us.
Today I choose you, and tomorrow I will choose you again,
and every day thereafter. Chris, I will
love you forever. And if there is
eternity, I’ll love you there again. You
are my best friend, the love of my life, my collaborator, my other half.
I promise to hold onto you for as long as my body will let
me, for as long as time ends and starts again, until my fingers are dust and my
soul turns to water.
We Two Crows are happy to announce that Elyse Brownell has won the 2014 Monkey Puzzle Press Poetry Chapbook contest for her collection, Sinkhole. In addition to her first place winnings, Brownell's book is now forthcoming from the amazing editors at Monkey Puzzle. Be on the lookout for this amazing new work.
Check out the Monkey Puzzle Press website for the exciting details!
I
think of Neal Cassady. What if Jack had
never met you? Would he have written On the Road? Would Jack have taken to that ol’ road at all
without your letters to spur him on?
What if you had not been there to be his muse? Would Visions of Cody still be dangling in
the firmament, waiting on another time, another space to be born? What of Allen—who he without his cocksman of
Denver? Would his howl still shake city
walls? And if no Jack on the road, would
there be a school named after the man whose words you so inspired? Probably not and maybe good for them there on
the Arapahoe: then they wouldn’t have to
hide from the lineage made them famous.
Hello Jack Kerouac School: why do
you deny your lineage? Embrace your story and remember: it’s all about the writing. Oh Naropa:
Now that I am gone, will you deny my name when my words get out? Will you deny me because I am not “other” and
not worthy of a voice? Oh JKS: there is more to this world than feminism and
queer theory. Such worthy voices, yes,
so please let them sing, but why limit yourself to just those sweet tunes? Embrace Jack and Neal and Allen and for
fucks sake: teach a class on Anne
Waldman’s poetry: in this great future,
you can’t forget your past; you can’t deny your present. And when you’re done reconciling your demons,
let’s hit that mad road together . . .
Two Crows is happy to announce: Tomorrow! Bouldering Poets celebrates its Two Year Anniversary. Come show your support at Trident Booksellers and Cafe in Boulder. The event is FREE and welcomes ALL AGES. The event features Alan Mudd, Teacup Gorilla, and Two Crows' own Christopher Shugrue. Bring CA$H as books from the features will be available. And after the features hit the stage, don't forget about the world famous Open Mic. Bring your poems, bring your barbaric yawps, bring your selves!
Two Crows is also excited that this event will double as the release party for Christopher Shugrue's new book, Straw Writes (Monkey Puzzle Press, 2014).
Come on out and support local writers, performers, and musicians! See you there!
We at Two Crows are proud to announce the release of Christopher Shugrue's new prose chapbook: Straw Writes!! The book was published by the great people at Monkey Puzzle Press and is now available for purchase here.
You can also read an interview with the author about the work here. Get your copy today and enjoy!
Praise for Straw Writes
Straw
Writes is nothing short of astonishing. The
ghosts of Walt Whitman and Allen Ginsberg weave through the text, and
Christopher Shugrue ably shows himself to be one of their literary heirs.
Christopher. P. Shugrue is an incredible
person. Have you heard him read? Try. It's an altering and
intense experience. To read his work, yourself, is to enter into a space
that is shattering something, always. And finding a way back. In
this sensitive and brave first book, Shugrue works hard to make sense of the
materials of war, and of the time that follows it. He considers the
memory that a person might build -- and loop -- in civilian life. The life
where you get to love someone and follow them a little bit of the way. He
is not afraid to write into the madness. What it means to go and not,
always, return. I am honored to write in support of this generous writer
who is -- as they say -- the real thing. I never knew what that actually
meant until I encountered Chris himself, as I hope you will one day.
World
on fire, ghost winds, naked children in the American night, as a Whitmanic and
Ginsbergian ethos permeates the battleground of a Fallujah nightmare. This is the scape of Straw Writes, a hybrid text of conviction and urgency.
An EXCERPT from A METHOD
AND APPARATUS OF ARRIVAL AND/OR DEPARTURE
Elyse Brownell
FIELD
The
presented poem is broadly directed toward what it means to arrive and what it
means to depart, as well as the steps and materials needed to leave. Such a
system will prevent entrapment, loneliness, and other mental conditions.
ABSTRACT
Presented
is one method and apparatus of arrival and/or departure having an aperture of
the space-time continuum for the sake of travelling from one location to
another location. Specifically, what are
the steps needed to take in order to come to the decision to leave one
location, to depart, and to arrive in another location, to arrive. Furthermore, what is contained in the
decision to leave said location, i.e., the heart, a hollow muscle or organ that
pumps blood throughout the blood vessels, among other methods. Further, further, this one method of arrival
and/or departure is one that could not be ignored, avoided, or prevented.
BACKGROUND
There
is that check-in that you must procure.
Which, if you think about it, you’re just reconfirming the confirmation
you’ve already made and if you’re not “checking” bags but rather carrying them
on your persons, then what is the point of the check-in? To Check-In: the process whereby a person
announces their arrival. Airport: I am
arriving. What it means to arrive. To
carry your body across point A to arrive at point B. With arrival comes the
departure, the departure of body, waiting, sitting still, crossing lands and
oceans. Fall asleep in one state wake up
in another. Insomnia. I am body awake beneath this dream. Lover, I am awake
beneath this realm holding your hand in another state. When we arrived we
departed. When we departed we
arrived.
The
following listing of claims will replace all prior versions/listings of claims
in the above-captioned poem:
What
is Claimed:
1.
A decision to leave, comprising:
a reason, consisting of:
i) a need to see
a person whom you have not seen in a long time, said time greater than or
directly equal to six months, said months comprising the Gregorian calendar of
months; and
ii) a want, a
feeling you cannot contain, like sunlight in a glass jar, like, holding a hand
a little longer, a little softer, said hand relative to the person whom you
have not seen in a long time, said time greater than or directly equal to six months,
said months comprising the Gregorian calendar of months;
monetary value greater than or
equal to the cost of your heart, comprising:
i) a hollow
muscle or organ that pumps blood throughout the blood vessels, relative to
cardiac, relative to emotion, directly comprising:
collections of de-oxygenated blood;
a mesh work of cardiac muscle cells; and
love: a variety of feelings, states, and attitudes.
2. The assembly of claim 1, wherein a
circumstance does not prevent a person from making said decision.
3. The assembly of claim 1, wherein the need is
not in direct contact with selfish reasons to arrive at said decision.
4. The assembly of claim 1, wherein the want
cannot be avoided at any cost, wherein the sunlight in a glass jar is a
metaphor but the holding of a hand is literal.
5. The assembly of claim 1, wherein the monetary
value is on a scale of USD and heart strings, of which are equivalent to the
relation of the amount of heart strings that will deteriorate if a person does
not make the decision to leave.
6. The assembly of claim 1, wherein the heart
remains inside the chest of the person who has made the decision to leave.
7. The assembly of claim 6, wherein the chest of
the person who has made the decision to leave, is located on said persons.
8. The assembly of claim 1, wherein the
composition of said heart is only an opinion made by the person who has made
the decision to leave.
9. A method and apparatus of arrival, comprising:
an aircraft assembly unit containing
passenger seats for said person who has made the decision to leave; and/or
a motor vehicle containing a
seat for said person who has made the decision to leave;
fuel;
monetary value greater than or
equal to the cost of your heart;
the desire to arrive, consisting
of;
i) the act of coming
to or reaching a place;
ii) someone or
something that has come to a place; and
iii) the time
when something begins or happens.
10. The method of claim 9, wherein said aircraft
assembly unit abides by the terms required by aviation safety, specifically:
the theory, investigation, and categorization
of flight failures;
the prevention of such failures
through regulation, education, and training;
various campaigns to inform the
public as to the safety of air travel; and
the passenger who is standing in
the row adjusting their carry-ons after the captain has turned on the fasten
seat belt sign, and the passengers have been informed it is no longer safe to
move about the cabin, does not exist.
11. The method of claim 9, wherein said motor
vehicle, comprises:
a self-propelled wheeled vehicle
that does not operate on rails;
the vehicle propulsion is
provided by an engine or motor;
is identified within a number of
vehicle classes; and
the operator of said vehicle is
either the person who has made the decision to leave or is the person who was
convinced by the person who has made the decision to leave either by monetary,
sexual, neighborly, and the like, gestures.
12. The method of claim 9, wherein the type of
fuel is the preferred specialized type of petroleum-based fuel used to power an
aircraft.
13. The method of claim 9, wherein the monetary
value is on a scale of USD and heart strings, of which are equivalent to the
relation of the amount of heart strings that will deteriorate if a person does
not make the decision to leave.
14. The method of
claim 9, wherein the time when something begins or happens is relative to the
location of arrival, directly opposite from the location of departure.
15. The method of
claim 14, wherein said location is directly relative to the end result to the
decision made by the person to leave.
16. The method of
claim 14, wherein said location is directly relative to an infinite number of
results to the decision made by the person to leave.
To prepare for National Poetry Month, we have decided to partake in the Poet-to-Poet challenge. Though the guidelines specifically indicate the challenge is for grades 3-12, we can't miss an opportunity to be inspired. Rather than enter our poems (since we can't), we will post them here! More about the challenge here.
Visiting Lake Superior
Elyse Brownell
Return, again, to attend the ballet of Heliades across the blue-stained glass floor.
Walk along her shoreline, her softness pulled up around your toes as you sink into her body.
Feel the openness of her, an endless space, waiting beneath the curve of the Porcupine Mountains.
Rest, face her, watch the memories play back on reels of your father's fishing lines: late baths on warm summer nights; a plunge through her shell with the other polar bears; the Northern Lights (she welcomes them new again each time); her vacancy, after the fall, so many times.
Leave her as you found her, like an infinite lover you’ll always return to.
Directions to a Memory
Elyse Brownell
Return to the playground where someone threw rocks at your brother after he told them to leave you alone.
Leave the park, there, your brother, standing still holding another pointed rock in his palm.
Reach the top of the hill, just enough to see the boys standing still, like Risk pieces before the war began.
See your brother fall, like the wind knocked him over, as sudden as a picture frame falling down.
Run down the street, further away from water, though every direction you are standing closer.
Enter through the white screen door, calling to your mother, to hurry, to come see, to forget her purse, for now.
Can We Return? Elyse Brownell
She is waiting for you on the porch where you stood
kissing your first love.
Mother, I have come home again, so you can take
care of me, if but just for one week.
Lover, when I walk these streets I don’t think
of you, for the first time, since we met.
I am standing near the railroad where we crossed
the rails just months before the ink dried.
Silver spawn, flock to me, land on a branch,
nibble on some berries, I will be there soon.
Remember the playground where we were stuck for
hours? Remember the tether ball?
I still remember the way the icing tasted on my
pink ninja turtle cake after the goose hunt.
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