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Notes

Written 26 August 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Luctus Herbarium” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)


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Notes

Written 7 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Making Circles in Darkness” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)


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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.

Amazon Paperback

Amazon Kindle

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.

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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.

Notes

Written 20 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma

Brian Fuchs, “Triticum aestivum” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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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.

Notes

Written 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “The Rain” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

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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.

Notes

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.

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We had a hot week, which is pretty typical.  I wish I’d gotten more accomplished, but everything was feeling difficult.  So many of my days anymore are like that.

It seems like gardening is the way I’m dealing with things.  I’ve mentioned it, but it just keeps coming up.  I’m surprised, but maybe shouldn’t be really.  It was my grandpa’s death that first got me interested in growing plants.  I became briefly obsessed with houseplants.  I was living in an apartment at the time, so I couldn’t go crazy with plants of my own, but that turned into an attempt at a vegetable garden the following Spring and planting some roses for Mom in the summer.  But that was a terrible summer for growing anything and it was really discouraging.  I decided not to try again.  When Dale Combs, the man who I was named after, passed away, I was drawn to go sit and think beneath some beautiful big trees and to spend time in a wooded park.  It felt natural to be surrounded by nature.  Mary Combs passed in 2017, and once again I felt drawn to nature and natural things.  It was Winter, but I wanted to be outside.

If spent my Summer so far wanting to be outside as much as possible.  I have been incredibly worried about what I should be doing, about my health, and about my future.  Some days I feel like I’m going to explode, but being in my yard seems to be helping.  I’ve babied my roses, planned for new beds, created a new bed, and generally enjoyed being in my garden.  I even enjoy it when it’s too hot.  It just feels right, and I guess that’s okay.  I don’t want to spin out of control too much, but I do want to just keep getting things done.  It just feels right.

I’m sadder now than I ever have been, but I’m feeling tired of being tired.  I’m tired of crying and tired of sleeping.  I feel sadder than I ever imagined a person could feel, and I also feel calmer than I would have expected.  I just want to sit quietly in a beautiful garden and not stress out about things.  Of course, I have to create the garden I want, but it just feels right, and I’m going to try to let myself be.

One of the things I’m doing later this year is to get a bunch of people a flowering tree to plant in Mom’s memory.  I got my trees ordered this week, and they will arrive around Thanksgiving.  It’ll be a nice time to plant.  I hope that goes down well for everyone.

I don’t know what will happen next week.  I feel lost today, but I hope each day surprises me by being better than I expected.

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This has been a trying week.  I’ve really felt like I’ve been stuck in slow motion while everything speeds by around me.  I’m tired; I’ve spent the majority of time in bed this week.  I’m not ready for real life, but it keeps popping up because it doesn’t seem to care if I’m ready or not.  Mom wanted me to be successful.  I think she believed I could be even more than I did, so when I have been awake this week I’ve been charging ahead with my blog and social media.  I have a lot of plans for the blog, for my work, and for my home.  I don’t want to stop planning my life, even if I do find everything rather pointless right now.

I hope this upcoming week is a little better.  I have some projects that should prove therapeutic, and should I get to them I will discuss it in next week’s review.  I’m trying to not put too much pressure on myself, so I easily could have another week of sleeping.  This is hard.  It’s actually much harder than I expected, and I expected it to be rough.  I need time.  I need a lot of time, and I hope I don’t bore anyone by taking my time.

Posts this week:

This week saw the revival of the Oklahoma Family Tumblr started by Brent 5 years ago.  Check it out!

Check out my Instagram posts as well.

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This has been a difficult week for me.  On the 28th, I lost my kitty Franz who was born in my living room 16 years ago.  He has been a part of so many moments in my life.  I’m not sure how to express how much he has meant to me, but I can tell you that his absence is very much noticeable.  I miss him.  I miss him waking me up in the morning, cuddling with me while I watch TV, and greeting me when I walk in the door.  I feel guilty that I couldn’t keep him alive, and the whole week has felt like such a blur.

I was 22 when Franz came into my life.  I really feel like my adult life has been defined by him.  And yes, his mama is still with us.  Molly is 6 months older, and she seems to have not really noticed that Franz is gone.  And I’m glad to have her — I don’t mean to take away from her impact on my life, but they had such different personalities.  Franz was a sweetheart.  He was timid and gentle.   Molly more or less tolerates me.  She is independent and self-determined.  And she always gets her way.  I’m trying to think of a creative way to memorialize Franz.  He deserved to live forever, and I want to keep him a part of my life forever.

Highlights from Tumblr

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Dale

I sought the council of trees, Dale’s name lingering in my head,
hoping to glean wisdom from the aged assembly,
hoping to hear God through the woody branches.
I studied the structure of oak leaves, how each attached to a branch;
watched sunlight fall through the new growth on cedars;
made note of the greenbriar’s leafy fingers wrapping around the trunks of pecans.
The world was still and hot and dotted with tiny white butterflies
emerging from the thickets to enjoy a field of nectar-filled flowers in the afternoon sun.
My mind had been typically cluttered, with family dramas,
thirteen years of grief, first loves, comedy routines,
and parts of a jingle from a TV commercial I remembered from childhood.
Sitting in the surrounding quiet, I waited for the ancient botanical knowledge,
letting those thoughts drop away, heavy and viscous,
and leaving behind a calm in which I could almost hear the butterflies landing on petals.
The wind came gently then, in small bursts that the oaks seem to enjoy,
allowing the trees to flit thousands of leaves about merrily.
A rustle, a calm and relaxing rustle accompanied by silent mimics,
of a host of lesser plants vying for the favor of the post oaks,
standing as the monarchs of this dry woodland.
A slightly stronger breeze, a creaking sound as older specimens swayed,
some long dead, the bony outer branches moaning hauntingly in the current.
The tranquility was broken, butterflies scattered unceremoniously into the air,
having been blown off their perches by a strong wind that moved through the grasses,
flattening it in waves as it moved across the expanses.
When the wind reached the sentinels of trees standing bravely against it,
they found themselves unprepared and leaves and branches erupted into chaos.
Dale had died.
He had been my namesake, the hero and villain of his own stories,
his name lingered, attached to mine as a reminder of who he no longer was
and as a reminder of who he had been capable of being,
a reminder of who we all had been, of what we wanted to say we had been.
And now he was gone. As the gust moved on in the distance,
stillness returned to the trees and I still faced them, waiting for answers.
We were all there, waiting for different pieces, prostrating ourselves before them.
The instructions were lost, the knowledge never passed on,
the person whose position had been placed so highly seeming to fade
with great distances, separated by different trees, grasses, weeds.
His name lingered, attached to mine as a reminder that we should hold on,
hold him up as he fell, his wings revealed to be a mirage.
It was not always enough, we were not always enough,
and we allowed Dale to slip into humanness.
The trees had again become silent. The distances now as close as they would ever be,
as far somehow as they had felt before when inscribed books would
arrive by mail, wrapped in symbols of birthdays or holidays or plainly
when a book had piqued Dale’s desire to share it with me,
a boy he barely knew, but to whom his name was attached.
And there were songs and great conversations, which are things
of which plants know little. And things that had defined him
so importantly that it felt proper to discuss them now, with God or the trees.
The heat had started to intensify; beads of sweat formed on my neck and face.
Still I waited, knowing that lives had become altered, knowing that we had reached
both the beginning and the end of everything.
And I thought about whittled walking sticks, carefully crafted from the new growth.
His name lingered in my mind, attached to the trees, I now realized, a part of it.
The presence of butterflies had increased in my focused state;
they now seemed to be everywhere, clustered on flowers
and dancing through the space between the trees.
I turned and went back to the house, knowing and not knowing,
melding now with the air and grass, with the trees.
And I thought about Dale, his name lingering there, attached to mine,
attached to the moment and those memories,
attached to the wings of hundreds of tiny butterflies
And I smiled because I had known him.

Notes

Brian Fuchs, “Dale” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)

Written 25 July 2015 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

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It was March 10, 2002 — a Sunday morning. I was at work, shelving a cart in the corner of the store where the history, biography, & social sciences sections were kept. I had paused for a moment to read the inside flap on the book.  I had taken entirely too much time looking decided to place it on hold for myself so I could look at it later. I took it to the front and placed it on the employee hold shelf. Bettina announced that I had a phone call. I knew it would be my parents and it irritated me that they could never figure out to not call me before we open.

When I answered the phone, it was my dad. There were no pleasantries; he simply said I needed to leave work and drive to Stillwater immediately. Not really catching on to the tone, I informed him that I couldn’t leave work, but wanted to know what was going on. “Mimi has been taken to the hospital and is probably not going to make it.” That still breaks my heart. My brain went numb and my eyes blurry. I said I would leave and be there as soon as possible. As soon as I hung up, I went back to the office, told Bettina I needed to go, and fell apart. She comforted me, telling me not to worry about work and instructing me to do what I needed to do. I left work, went home to let Justin (who was my roommate at the time) know where I’d be, and rushed to Stillwater. On the way, my cousin Becky called to make sure I knew what was going on.

I arrived in Stillwater about an hour and a half after the initial phone call. As I walked in, I was met by my mom, who was bawling. The entire tone of the house was energetic and sad — each family member’s arrival starting the tears over again.

“Mimi” is my mom’s mom, Bonita Christine “Chris” Tucker. She was the matriarch of our family; the force that connected us all and kept us together. She orchestrated every event that brought us together, reminded us to connect with one another, and nagged us all mercilessly. Mimi was an extremely confident woman who knew who she was. She was totally devoted to her husband, her God, & the other members of her church. She was generous with her money and her time, but was never afraid to tell you her opinion on what you were doing. Evidently, there wasn’t enough money to be made as a writer to justify her supporting it. I cherished talking to her. I would sit with her and talk about people for hours… she knew absolutely everything going on in Stillwater. But it never seemed like gossip. Mimi was a very good-hearted person.

By the time I arrived in Stillwater, she had passed away. After the watery greetings from my mom and aunt, I settled in with my brothers and cousin — those I always hang out with when everyone is together. Star, my grandparents’ cat, was the hero of this story. Even though he was unable to save her, he did what he could. Apparently, he went to my grandpa (Papa), woke him up, and led him to where Mimi had fallen. We suspect either a massive heart attack, stroke, or aneurysm, as her arms were still by her side and she hadn’t tried to stop her fall.

Bonita
on viewing my Mimi’s body

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matched
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck.
As if she’d just come in
from church for a nap —
a lazy Sunday afternoon,
shy lay resting — calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down my grandpa’s
too often stoic face.
His wife — the woman he
devoted his entire life to —
his best friend.
“She really is a beautiful lady.”

Brian Fuchs 3.12.2002

That week was surreal. I still don’t remember much of it. Of course, it culminated in a beautiful funeral. I had gone back home to Tulsa to get some clothes and for the funeral I chose the shirt she had just given me for Christmas. The shirt was a gold knit with a collar. I wore khaki pants. I wouldn’t have felt right in dark colors and I really wanted to celebrate life. The funeral was made that much more difficult when I discovered that my cousins’ nanny was sitting with them and I couldn’t sit with my immediate family because of it. Furthermore, I ended up next to my mom’s friend, who had apparently not figured out that I was an adult and kept talking to me as if I were a child.

When the funeral was over, my two best friends came up to me and asked if I was okay. I had really been fine all week, only crying on Sunday morning. I shook my head no and buried myself in their arms and cried. I felt like the world had just ended. A few days later, I left on a trip with them, where I was able to sort through things slowly throughout the next week. Which isn’t to say I felt any better about it all.

untitled (‘100 days’)

It’s been one hundred days
and if feels like it all happened
just this morning.
I’m starting to realize she’s gone —
finally missing her and ultimately
knowing I can never see her again.

I hate that morning —
when Mimi died.
Loneliness overtook me and
pain was invited in.
All I needed was a hug
from Bettina, JD, Travis, Becky,
Mom — but they weren’t there.
I’m cold inside and sad.
I miss her.

Brian Fuchs 6.18.2002

It took a long time to accept that Mimi was gone. I imagine I will have that hole in my heart for the rest of my life. I haven’t even been able to return to her house for any length of time and feel comfortable. That always makes me feel guilty because I do want to visit Papa, who is remarried, but there is too much history in that place. But it is also important to remember that I got to know Mimi. I had the amazing opportunity to be a member of a family with her at the head.

That is when I first realized my life had become about death. It had only been 447 days since my grandma Fuchs (“G”) had passed away. Since then, I have lost 2 friends and 2 great-grandmothers. I am ready to have my life defined by something else; be defined by love or friendship or family. I have felt rather selfish about these deaths over these past 6 years. They are important to me, but moving on is much more important.

21 March 2007

Images: photo of Christine Tucker; vintage illustration of child dressed as a cardinal

Featured Image Art: photo of Christine Tucker

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…
I should be sleeping, but I find myself up thinking about getting old, or maybe just death. I am a little blue, but I know that I am not alone. I so desperately wish I could be alone in this sometimes. A friend e-mailed me the other day to tell me that his paternal grandpa and his maternal grandma are both in poor health. Very poor. It breaks my heart that he is dealing with the things I have struggled with. Honestly, this friend has had more than his fair share of struggles in his life. I want to give him a big hug.

Papa isn’t doing that well… it makes me feel guilty and sad. I am not sure I could handle anything happening to him right now. It would tear me up. He has back problems, which are not serious, but he has started feeling old, which is worse.

When John died, I has hoped that I would never deal with death again, knowing that was stupid… I just don’t know what I have left. I already do a great deal of pushing people away. More abandonment might cause a great break down. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. I know that Papa isn’t doing that well, so I have visited less. It doesn’t help that the house makes me sad because Mimi should be there. Age is such a cruel joke. If you can make it through this life, you will be rewarded with death. How much sense does that make. I wish we didn’t get old – I don’t necessarily mind aging per se, but I don’t want people to die.

I hope Travis understands how much I love him and I will keep his family in my thoughts and prayers. I have so many thoughts in my head, but I am so tired that I will have to come back to them when I am not fighting with my sleep.

Featured Image Art: photo by George Hoza (via Unsplash)

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Semiprecious

Turquoise makes me sad
because my grandmother is dead.

Notes

Written 15 July 2004 in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Semiprecious” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

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Happy:
I have been unable to sleep since chatting with this great guy. I really hope to meet him soon. It was so nice to just take a risk again and be vulnerable to someone. I have really held myself back lately and it has sucked to not have anyone. I don’t know what will happen, but I am so excited that I at least took the step to talk to someone. Yay!! I also chatted with another great guy… He was incredibly sweet.

John:
Lori recently posted something about John. I think I am refusing to believe it now. I was mourning normally and then nothing. I am not sad, but it is more like I blocked him out for now. It seems so weird that I am able to talk about it and still know that I am not currently dealing with this. I have been trying all day to deal with this; I refuse to believe that John died.

Texas:
I made the schedule with my vacation on it!!!! Yay! I am going to Austin for a couple of days and then to Houston for a couple. Depending on what happens I may need to stop in Norman on the way! It will be nice to see Travis and Sandra (Austin). It has been too long. I want to shop in Houston and Lori’s family lives there (near Clearlake area), which makes the trip convenient since I don’t need any hotels!! I really hope they let me stay with them. I am really excited to just have some time off. Wow I have spent a ton of time in Texas in the past 2 years. Can’t wait…

Visiting People:
I forgot to go visit my dad. I am horrible. Maybe I can go tomorrow evening. I also chatted with Kendra today. I haven’t seen JD & Kendra in an obscene amount of time. I could visit. They live an hour away… that isn’t far.

Great guy:
I get to meet the great guy no later than Saturday night. I am excited about it. I hope he is who he seems to be on here… Hmm… I also have my usual reservations about being repulsive. I know better. Hmmm… I am nervous. Its been a long time.

Featured Image Art: flag of The State of Texas

originally posted on Xanga

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Bonita

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matches
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck,
as if she’d just come in
from church for a nap
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
She is calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down Papa’s face;
his wife and best friend,
the mother of his children
and the strong woman
to whom he devoted a life,
lies quietly, still the girl he married
only fifty-three years ago.
‘She really is a beautiful lady.’

Notes

Written 12 March 2002 in Stillwater, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Bonita” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

Original Version:

Bonita
on viewing my Mimi’s body

She looks perfect,
her familiar red dress matched
beautifully with the soft pink lining,
the red heart draped around her neck.
As if she’d just come in
from church for a nap –
a lazy Sunday afternoon,
she lay resting — calm, peaceful.
Tears stream down my grandpa’s
too often stoic face.
His wife — the woman he
devoted his entire life to –
his best friend.
“She really is a beautiful lady.”