#brian simoneau

[fluttering-slips]

I Grieve That Grief Can Teach Me Nothing

Road stippled with rain, I slam imaginary brakes in the back seat. Sparrows in bushes and I'm breathless, scanning for bear, cougar— something to explain the brain's involuntary circling the drain, a hole I can't fathom. I'm sick and tired of dying—tired of its grip on the belly's pit, sick of the shiver it slips between beats, the ceiling's spin before the heart settles back to its rhythm and muscles unclench. In bed I used to pray for everyone to make it through the night. Now I lie awake and wait for day to break. Say something, I beg the dead, tell me it's easier in the moment to let it go but they have no promise to give, and the list of names grows daily longer until I know to live is to gather dying about myself like a quilt in the night, like sheets, like skin. Brian Simoneau

[bibliomancyoracle]

Make a mountain out of every molehill. Roll up            dirt the way a kid gathers snow around itself

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from “Manifesto” by BRIAN SIMONEAU

[soracities]

I wait for night to come without          its dark, for flakes to taper off and clouds to pull apart, for stars          and the day’s accumulated falling to reflect their light, luster          offered up by streets I knew till now, each house a ghost against          the sky. I hold my breath. Tonight I will not shut my eyes.

Brian Simoneau, from 'Solstice'

[lunalunamagazine]

Poetry by Brian Simoneau

Poetry by Brian Simoneau

Of the Pine-trees Crusted with Snow

When snow starts falling, falling at first like cherry blossoms in warm wind, the tree seems to lift like wings its branches, hover *******the way a lover lingered in a door *******and longing took hold before she was gone,

but then it happens so fast, the gathering of this season and its distances, you fail to notice the moment they sag,  *******each limb like…

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[therumpus]

My feelings about David Roderick’s second collection, The Americans, are decidedly not ambivalent: I love this book. Yes, I read Roderick’s collection as if he’d written it for me. Yes, in poem after poem, I found myself coming closer and closer to understanding this strange place in which I have lost myself. But make no mistake: The Americans is no self-help book, no guide to suburban living. Rather, this compelling and beautifully crafted collection offers all of us a chance to examine the places we make our homes, to remember what these places might mean in the context of American history, and to consider how they might shape American culture.

Brian Simoneau reviews The Americans by David Roderick.