Brian Thedell

Published in another anthology!

The San Diego Poetry Annual publishes a yearly anthology representing San Diego area poets. For their 2014-2015 anthology, they accepted my poem, “Moisture.” Copies of the annual are donated to various libraries around the county, so I’m officially going to be a small part of San Diego literary history. Interested? You can pick up a copy here.

I had frankly held off announcing the publication here until the last minute; there was some question as to if my poem was actually accepted. Happily, all the confusion cleared, and I will indeed be in the anthology. I’m hoping to make some of the anthology readings that the organization hosts throughout the year.

I’m also hoping to submit to a magazine soon—an honest-to-goodness magazine! But *knockOnWood* I’m not announcing where just yet… ;)

New audio coming soon!

I know I made some “promises” about reading my poems aloud and making those readings available online. Frankly, though, I was unhappy with the equipment I was using. A better audio interface improved things somewhat, but the dynamic microphone I was using was still better suited for rugged performance, not studio recording. Recently, I got a USB condenser microphone, but I couldn’t use it until today because it needs a “pop” filter—a screen to suppress the little gust-of-wind noises that come from speaking directly into a sensitive microphone.

So I’ll be redoing the poem I already put up here, and I’ll finally be reading more of my poems for online listening. In the meantime, you can check out a preview by listening to me read Shakespeare’s Sonnet #30 on dropBrian.

DMCA? You don’t say?

I try to give credit to everything I post on my social media; still, if someone really wants something taken down, down it goes. I respect artistic authorship.

That image associated with this post? It’s mine. Find it here.

Some really just don’t understand about making art, I guess. I hope I won’t need a restraining order; from what I understand, that was necessary at one point.

Still avidly converting oxygen into carbon dioxide…

…as in, I’m still alive. And still recovering from the immuno-suppressant-induced coma from last year (!)… I didn’t feel so self conscious about my leg braces, until Cyanide and Happiness did a short where a beautiful woman revealed to have squeaky leg braces is the first in a series of “the saddest things the comic author could conceive of.”

So, in addition to dealing with disability, it’s the Christmas season and whatnot; I probably won’t have any new poems until the new year. I might go ahead and try to record some poems and put up the mp3s or Soundcloud them or something.

Also, I need to attend to my dropBrian Tumblr, which is growing weeds it’s so neglected. I actually am really happy with that Tumblr; while I don’t have many regular followers, I get lots of random people on Tumblr liking my poems, which is gratifying. Before, when I just published here, I’m pretty sure my only reader was this bitter old hater who is obsessed that I’m writing about her—I’m not. Also, don’t ACTUAL victims of stalking and rape usually AVOID enthusiastically dating their stalker-rapist? But I forgot, her life is essentially a bad Friday night drama that’s burned through its premise…

When You Were So Young

[Note: This was originally published on Tumblr; since I’m actively cross-pollinating now, I’m publishing here.]

You were so young, then. I remember
when I met you, that I could just remember
what it was like to be that young.
I don’t guess you’re quite so young
now; now I only remember remembering.

Of course, I remember you. I think
you’re growing bald a bit, but
of course I don’t care—the scorch marks
of age never quite make you any less
handsome, at least not from my
shifting view.

Time and place—all our places travel with us;
sunbleached paint and dirty baseboards
mark time with their cues of growing decay.
Your eyes are still so bright.

I thought time would make you less timid, but then
I never really understood you, never really
got why you didn’t fight through life, why you
just went limp in the face of everything.
If only someone could carry you.
If only I could carry you.
If only there were something more to do
than watch.

Auden said that time and fevers
burn away—and he’s right;
love is the ash, the residue
of my fevered time; my love for you is
dusty, remote, like a long neglected cabin
at the end of wild, feral trails.

It’s something that I’ve put in a box and
tucked into the back of the hallway closet;
maybe it will soak up the soft scent of the linens.
And I’m sorry I left you behind. I didn’t want to leave you
alone there; I wanted to burn with you.

But now, I’m married.

Cobain would rhyme that with buried—and
he’d be right. But we can both remember before;
we can both remember that I knew you
when you were so young…