Blog Posts
“My Native Valley”
My Native Valley
Lacosha! you kept passing by.
We never picked bright yellow
flowers in the fields on Spring mornings,
and we never chased rabbits
through people’s backyards on
Autumn afternoons.
I’m still looking for words,
my voice muffled by fear,
to invite you to my birthday party.
Written 15 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “My Native Valley” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
“New Kids on the Block”
New Kids on the Block
If the spaces under the highway
had been a passage to a great
underground city, I’d still be there
living among the mole people,
still listening to your sister’s cassettes.
It was always over as soon as it started,
and I longed for you for years after.
The gas station stopped selling gas;
it’s just as well. I don’t drive that way
anymore and I don’t want the salty chips
we used to get before spending afternoons
listening to music at your house.
You’ve grown too great for me to see
and I’ve started shrinking into the cracks,
barely leaving a mark behind to find.
I’ll see you at the next protest
on the steps of the state capital.
I wonder if I’ll still be visible by then.
Written 15 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “New Kids on the Block” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
“Cakewalk”
Cakewalk
The mint’s taken over
and we just watched it,
eating sandwiches, piled
with fresh tomatoes picked
from the garden.
Love is letting a plant take
over a meticulously tended
bed for a child’s whim.
The tomatoes are gone,
and the mint reminds me
that things used to be
full of everything good.
Written 15 February 2020
Brian Fuchs, “Cakewalk” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
“Legg-Calvé-Perthes Cocoon”
Legg-Calvé-Perthes Cocoon
I’m more reptilian than Russian.
My parts have grown back,
and I’ve shed myself so many times,
expecting somehow to find smaller
versions of myself.
I haven’t grown smaller.
I test my legs often,
waiting for cracks to form
and for the new leg beneath
to emerge, emaciated and pale,
like it was the last time.
I thought I was a butterfly once,
and I fantasized about emerging
beautiful like the people I’m not.
I haven’t emerged beautiful.
Reinvention is either a myth
or a luxury of youth.
I tried so many times,
but I am more like myself now
than I ever was before.
It’s been thirty-five years
since the casts fixed my form
and my legs were allowed
to regrow.
I’m still waiting for it
to happen again,
knowing it won’t,
wishing it would.
I’m not so filled with new versions
as I was before,
and I’ve given up on beauty.
It was alway a lie anyway.
I long to know where
the beautiful people’s cracks form,
and what they expected to become.
Written 7 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Legg-Calvé-Perthes Cocoon” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
International Postcard Week 2019
It’s that time again, and I’ve been pretty excited to get my cards done. This year is also the 150th anniversary of the postcard, so there is a lot to celebrate! I love postcards. This year, I did 2 cards, and I also got Justin and Bradley to join me and do a card each. Below are our cards for this year. If you want one, just send me a message with your address and I’d be happy to send any or all that you’d like. Each was limited to 50 (Justin’s was limited to 30 numbered & 20 without number).
October 2019
In a lot of ways, it feels like things are starting to make sense for me. And it a lot of other ways, it feels like things are as chaotic as always. Everyone seems just a little frustrated, but I’m not sure most of them can articulate why. I know I can’t.
I finished Okie Dokie last month, and I have done a couple of edits to it since. I hope I’m at a point where I can leave it alone now. My copies come in the mail Saturday, and I’ll really know then. I’m both excited and terrified to have my writing available for others. That was always the goal, but I’m just so nervous about these things. I hope others can appreciate my point of view and I’m looking forward to getting feedback, even if that feedback is negative. Constructive criticism is always welcome. I actually just assume that if someone doesn’t like something I’ve written, then that is just a preference they have and does not reflect on my writing in any real way. If the consensus is negative, then I’m just writing the wrong things for current audiences. I will have to wait and see. The really difficult thing will be critiques by those I admire or grammatical errors pointed out by those I don’t.
I’ve started working on my next book, which will be similar to Okie Dokie in that it will contain selections of poetry from the past twenty years, as well as a few new poems to pull the book together. I’ll have one or two more like that before relegating unpublished poetry to a “remnants” book of some sort in the future. I have some things I’ve written that I really love, but I’m not sure how to make them work in any of these projects. I do want a story to emerge from the collection, even if only loosely. Okie Dokie was about myself and about how I see the world around me. The second book will be about family and the places from which they came. The third book is about friendship and love. If I need fourth or fifth, I’ll do another about myself and then a last one about family, as those are the two subjects I’ve written the most about. I’m also not limiting my writing. I have other things I want to write and those things will fall into the projects that make the most sense for them.
For October, I’m enjoying some spooky stories and songs throughout the month, and I am of course bothering family with those things. I miss sharing things with people. I find everyone becoming increasingly isolated, and not just in my own family. I’ll post some of those things on here during the month.
Now Available!
It’s finally out. And I can finally get some sleep! Here are the links to my book on Amazon. I think it looks so much better in paperback, but there is a Kindle version available.
If you don’t already know what’s up, here’s a little backstory. I’ve been writing since I was a child. My first poem that I remember was written in October 1988 when I was 9 years old. When I was 12, my teacher accused me of plagiarism because she didn’t think a child could write. I don’t say that to congratulate myself at all. I’m not even sure if that was worth all the aggravation. It has been lost to time. It was titled Paige and it was about the life of a woman who never finds happiness. But I imagine the actual poem would seem completely juvenile now.
I started writing in earnest in college and since 1997 I have written consistently. While I veer off into other projects, like short stories or novels, I find poetry that I always return to poetry and enjoy writing it. Over the years, I’ve developed my own style. That is a good thing. The problem is that I also haven’t had serious critique of my work since I graduated from college, so I don’t actually know how my work is seen by others. I’m amazed that I’ve managed to spend the better part of 20 years unwilling to share my work for fear of rejection. And I really should have managed that sooner!
When I lost Mom last year, the first thing I did was crawled into a metaphorical hole for 9 months. I wanted to disappear because I didn’t understand how one can live without his mama, and I’m not too proud to say it. It also brought a few things into focus. One of those things was letting go of the expectations and opinions of others. Now, I mean of me as a person, not my work. That is a lesson that has been taught to me my entire life, but sometimes things need to cook for a while.
So, now I’ve got a book. I worked diligently over the summer to get it done. My garden is sad and neglected, my roommate is sad and neglected, and my family… well, they are too busy to have noticed, but if they had I imagine they would feel sad and neglected. For this first collection of poems (because I don’t want it to be the last!), I wanted to focus on a few things: 1. Poems with very specific references to people. It’s not that I won’t write that way in the future, but I wanted to give people the words I had written for them before getting into other subjects. 2. Epitaphs. I’ve lost a lot of people and I often have things to say about that. I’d like to get through a lot of those I’ve had lying around, but there are many more. 3. My very favorite poems I’ve written… that aren’t too scandalous. I get it, family will buy this first book. They will even hang on for a second, but by the third they won’t be too fussed about it. So, I have actually created a plan where my third book is where I completely let my hair down. That does mean I have to do at least 2 more books, but it also sounds like I’m censoring myself. In a way I am, but I’m not completely either. I want my prudish great aunt to be able to have something she will never read, but that won’t make her blush too much if she decides to open it up.
Last thing I will say about it, I decided to make notes on each poem. Rather than include them in the actual printed book, they can be found here… in the writing tab, or at this link.
“Quentin Clingerman Has Died”
Quentin Clingerman Has Died
The winds are picking up
blowing trash into my yard
and announcing a storm that will
fall apart before it arrives.
The worn out flags and crosses
still look as majestic as they did,
but I’m opening by insides
and filling my pages with secrets.
I’m waiting for critiques
by entrenched folks who think
too much about the sex lives
of other people, of my sex life.
I want to reveal myself again,
try to make people see my words
and my techniques and stop worrying
about who I’ve kissed or
who I haven’t, but wanted to.
I want to edit volumes of poetry
about God and America and guns,
poems filled with the lies we tell ourselves
and enjoy them because the author
knew how to write the words beautifully.
I don’t want to read the judgement.
It starts to rain and I’m surprised;
I thought the rain would miss us.
Written 21 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Quentin Clingerman Has Died” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“Triticum aestivum”
Triticum aestivum
Soon enough we’ll be old and nostalgic.
You’ll talk about the prices of wheat and corn
like you grew up on a farm
instead of being a spectator at the rodeo.
I won’t understand the language of agriculture,
but I won’t care because you’ll remind me of mom.
Written 20 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma
Brian Fuchs, “Triticum aestivum” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“Gleditsia triacanthos”
Gleditsia triacanthos
You were beautiful once, and maybe you still are.
I rarely revisit those moments when we became adults
on Sunday mornings, skipping church for each other.
I don’t think about the length of your neck
and I don’t dwell on the smell of you skin.
I’ve turned you upside down, exposed the roots
and tried to understand how they worked,
rubbing the soil into the grooves of my skin.
I don’t want to return to your kindness or cruelty,
and I don’t want to put you back how I found you;
Your branches are thorny and I’d end up hurt again.
So, I’ll repaint the photos I have of you in new colors
and we can pretend that there were no feelings.
And I’ll send you copies of the new versions
and you can pretend that you don’t remember.
Written 18 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Gleditsia triacanthos” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“Pieces of Dissected Butterflies”
Pieces of Dissected Butterflies
I left Tulsa when my friends had died
and we were all set adrift, angry and lost,
wondering if staying meant more of us would die.
I tried to go to Dallas, to a life I wanted.
They boys swarm thickly there,
and I still wonder if my days would have been
spent in the beds of strangers if I’d gone there.
I’ve always longed for the beds of strangers,
to feel taken for granted and awkward.
In moving, I detoured, finding myself in Anchorage,
near the place where my dad spent his youth,
carried on winds I rode for too long, or just long enough.
I was not qualified for life in Alaska,
not qualified for the men who had gone there.
But I was determined to find myself,
or to find Dad in the places where his friends still lived.
His youth was left in an Alaska that no longer exists,
so my mind found new reasons to keep me there.
I found the spaces I understood,
the pockets of the city that seemed familiar,
bookstores filled with other refugees,
of lives that had started to drift.
My mind invented the things I didn’t know
and the people around me became gods.
I didn’t question that, and I formed a religion.
Their lives were spent being perfect
in ways I could never spend my own life.
They are still gods; I pray to them in darkness,
my soul crying out to be acknowledged.
On cold mornings, I liked to price books,
scanning their barcodes and attaching a sticker.
I would think about my friends,
wonder about the shapes of their bodies,
and worry that they could hear my thoughts.
I’d worry that I was saying the thoughts aloud,
and I’d wait for Kevin to go upstairs to inject his insulin
so I could stop thinking about his waist.
I’m still thinking about his waist.
The decade I’ve had to reflect has made me more curious
and sometimes I worry that he can still hear my thoughts.
I have been dissecting butterflies,
stained glass wings pulled apart
by unwieldy spinning steel fingers
as I think about beauty and conformity,
praying to my gods, mindlessly offering
the insects as a tribute.
I didn’t intend this massacre
and in the lawn lie the tiny lifeless parts.
In the hot sun of the places of my youth,
I don’t have new shapes to fill my mind,
new boys to think about.
I dwell on the boys of my past.
I’m reaching back, feeling myself grasping
for people I can’t always recognize,
the names apparitions in my mind.
Some of the gods’ faces have merged & morphed.
I’m taking the ones I wanted the most,
or the ones I wanted to be the most,
and placing their pieces where I can sort them
and try to hold onto them in my mind.
I’m still thinking about waists and hips and shoulders,
still wondering about the firmness of skin.
They haven’t seen me wondering,
their lives have pulled them toward much happier places,
some growing beautifully in Alaska,
others found scattered by the winds
that had first deposited them near me.
The butterflies are whispering secrets,
understandably warning each other about me.
In new cities and states, in their new lives,
they think about the times we spent together
and I go on thinking about their bodies.
Written 12 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Pieces of Dissected Butterflies” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
“The Rain”
The Rain
I’m still waiting outside for rain,
hoping for sudden downpours from cloudless skies.
I’m wondering if she’ll join me when the first drops
start to fall and the birds fall silent.
She’s been delayed, I’ve told myself again,
or the rain hasn’t been enough.
It has never been enough
I’ve summoned more and more rain,
for over a year I’ve coaxed it from the air,
the ground sometimes swelling, saturated and marshy.
Brush Creek has filled to overflowing,
washing out parts of the road and clearing out
the debris of our distractions.
It has not been enough.
The Cimarron & Arkansas Rivers have been flooded,
swallowing homes and memories,
lives lost and inconvenienced.
Still she has not arrived.
I continue my incantations, calling for more clouds,
more rain — great hurricanes that try to find me,
creeping along the coasts, tied to the oceans.
Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, The Bahamas, Puerto Rico,
they may all need to be sacrificed in my efforts,
and it will be worth the loss because I will
no longer feel like I am alone.
I am listening for those first signs, the drips on the tin roof
and I am ready to throw open the windows,
clench my fists, and try to push my dreams into reality.
I know she will join me if I keep trying,
and we will sit together on the covered porch,
resuming what should still be.
Written 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “The Rain” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
Thoughts On Age
Tomorrow I turn 40. I don’t know that I’m reacting at all. Maybe part of getting older is that these milestones mean less than they did. That sounds right.
I’ve been thinking about the concept of legacy lately. I recently watched a talk by an older woman who had been diagnosed with cancer and knew she would be dying soon. She didn’t want a legacy; she was so excited to return to the Earth, to be a part of the natural world. She talked about how beautiful that was. That really resonated with me and I had never heard anyone talk about it like that before. I find that I want both.
I’ve been working on my family tree for the past couple of years. It’s fascinating to discover these people from the past, people whose existence influences my life in ways I will never understand. They would have passed on lessons to their children, and those children to theirs, and so on. How far back would I have to go to find the genesis of my belief in fairness, my general work ethic, and my independent spirit? What would I find that wouldn’t be passed on? It’s such an interesting space to live in.
I have no children. Does that mean I will have no legacy? I admit that it is hard to see a situation three generations from now where there are descendants of my brothers working on their own genealogy and giving much thought to their distant uncle. But I do that for my own tree. Some of the most interesting people I find on my own tree are those who did not have children of their own. That is at least a little bit comforting. And I hope they find me interesting.
That isn’t at all to write off having children of my own. I still want that. I’m not sure at what age it becomes a selfish pursuit, but I don’t think forty is it. I make many excuses, but adoption is something I should really think about.
I’ll be forty tomorrow, and I’ve been talking about the loss of my youth. I don’t actually believe that. I think I’m trying to convince myself somehow that I have to grow up now. Most days I feel like I’m twenty, but I have days when I feel sixty.
I thought I would be panicky, but I’m not. I thought I would be coupled, but I’m not. I thought I would be settled, but I’m not. I thought I would be a lot of things. But I am where I am. And I’m okay with that.
“Cercis canadensis”
Cercis canadensis
When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before. I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.
Written 19 April 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma. Rewritten 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Cercis canadensis” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)
Cercis canadensis
When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before.
I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.