Awhile back I was lucky enough to happen onto a studio space where I can write and paint and putter around as much as I’d like. It’s in an old barn tucked back off the road about ten minutes from my house. As I write this post, I’m sitting at my desk and looking out on the snowy landscape. Looks like winter has arrived in Indiana.
Last weekend, The Red Barn Art Collective (where I have my studio space along with six other really talented folks) held an open house. I made some zines and broadsides to sell. One of the broadsides features and older poem, “Song” and the other is a brand new poem, “Self Portrait as Goldenrod” that came about as part of my self portrait project I’m working on.
“Song” by Brianna Pike/$5.00“Self Portrait as Goldenrod” by Brianna Pike/$5.00
If you’d like a broadside, send me a message or email and I’d be happy to drop one in the mail or I can send you a digital copy and you can print it yourself.
She went home and emptied her childhood home of all possessions. She and my father loaded their car and my grandfather’s car with pain and furniture and sorrow and dishes and grief and tools, and together they built a memorial inside of their house.
But while their house is brimming with the detritus of long lives once lived, there is an absence. My mother has next to nothing from her brother.
Her brother who died two months after their mother. Her brother who fell off a ladder on my sister’s birthday and died on mine. Her brother whose flag sat between us in a crisp triangle on my grandmother’s—soon to be mother’s—table.
My mother had time with her parents. She knew what they wanted.
My grandfather didn’t want my grandmother’s clothes donated. He didn’t want to see her jackets or pants or sweaters walking down the streets of their small town. He wanted my father to take his guns.
My grandmother wanted my sister to have the Wedgwood. She wanted me to have the Mary Gregory. She wanted my mother to have the grandfather clock.
But my uncle was fast, unexpected, and my aunt sold his things quickly. Cleaning out their home in Georgia with a speed that comes only with immense heartbreak. He was gone and his things were gone and my mother was left in despair with a living memorial to only part of her family. Empty spaces in the corners where he should be, filling them up.
My second essay, Before & After is featured in issue 16 of The Account. I am very proud of this piece as it blends two forms I love: lyric essay and poetry:
Lastly, I have placed one of the poems in my ongoing project about Vincent Van Gogh in the latest issue of Permafrost. You can find that poem (an ode to Vincent’s beloved Sunflowers) HERE.
Vincent van Gogh (1853 – 1890), Arles, January 1889 oil on canvas, 95 cm x 73 cm
For the past year and half or so, I’ve been working on a project about Vincent Van Gogh that is comprised of traditional poems but also collages about his work and life. I’m a bit obsessed with Mr. Van Gogh (we have the same birthday) and I really enjoyed working on these collages, so I’m so thrilled that three of them went live today in the latest issue of Petrichor Lit Mag.
Time in a pandemic is strange to say the least. This is especially the case as we come up on a year of social distancing and masking and hoping for vaccine that appears to finally be here.
This poem is a special one to me as it examines my physical body in a way that I don’t normally address in my poetry. It could be said that birth is a momentous and awe inspiring experience. It could be true that you look back on the birth of your child or children as a spiritual time. It could be said that you found it rejuvenating.
I think what could definitely be said, no matter what your experience may have been, is that is also traumatic. There’s no way around that trauma and that’s the idea this particular poem grapples with. I’m thankful to Fish Barrel Review for publishing it.
I became interested in visual poetry a few years ago and started playing around with some of my own work. I actually had a dream about this poem and this was the image I remembered when I woke up. A large, sprawling forsythia bush with the bones of all our beloveds buried beneath. I’m thrilled to have it up at Dream Pop with so many other great pieces.
I have a new essay up at Thimble Literary Magazine. It’s about the little pond I built in my backyard after my grandfather died and how I found comfort in the midst of my grief. It’s a beautiful issue and I’d encourage you to check it out.
My grandfather’s pond and water lilies from my little pond.
And here we are at the end. If you watched or commented or both, thank you. I’ve enjoyed this little project and until I see you again, take good care of yourself.
Brianna Pike 