Derrick Brown
WebsiteYears: 2011
Biography
Derrick Weston Brown holds an MFA in Creative Writing from American University. He was the founding Poet-In-Residence at Busboys and Poets and has taught creative writing and poetry at all levels of education. His poetry has been featured in such publications as The Washington Post, The New Orleans Times-Picayune and Colorlines. His work has also been featured in such journals as Vinyl, ThisMag, Fledgling Rag and The Tidal Basin Review. He is a graduate of the Home School and VONA Voices summer workshops. His debut collection of poetry, Wisdom Teeth (PM Press/Busboys & Poets Press) was released in 2011. A native of Charlotte, North Carolina, he resides in Mount Rainier, MD.Poem
After Harryette Mullen’s “Any Lit”
You gonna be my found and forever spooner.
You gonna be my frowned and forever schooner.
You gonna be my flounder forever sooner.
You gonna be my flautist Forever’s tuner.
You gonna be my foul kiss forever sutured.
You gonna be my falcon forever swooper.
You gonna be my Faust’s son forever stupor.
You gonna be my Frau hon forever soothed for.
You gonna be my flower forever saddle sore.
You gonna be my Falcor’s forever streamlined roar.
You gonna be my fallow forever seeded .
You gonna be my final forever ceded.
A Poem for Peter of The Snowy Day
You are a bright red cardinal feather Peter.
You are me.
A brown boy who scales mountains
and slides down slopes of imagination-
takes snowballs home for keepsakes
and weeps when what you love
melts away in the warmth of a happy home.
And haven’t we all as children tried
to hold on to happiness?
Pocket it
to stow away for a rainy day
when the melt becomes too much for us
and grown up fears and futures
start to snowball.
Peter. My brown reminder of the
child within, who’ll never melt
away.
At the VA
The man who shares
a room with my father
titters and jerks
under the covers of
his bed.
His hair is wet and silver
corn silk slivers against the
pillow. He dances under those
sheets like a thick cut
piece of bacon on a
skillet lacquered with grease.
He calls for his Mama.
This scares me and I watch
him from my chair where
I sit with Daddy.
Daddy barely notices.
I’m scratching the back
of his head, applying
lotion to his scalp
because his hands
don’t work.
I turn away from the man
in the bed who moans
“Cover me”
“Cover me”
And I don’t know if
this is meant for
the mother
or platoon
he keens for as his dream caught
legs churn his sheets
into white cloth froth.
I focus on Daddy’s scalp
and make this ritual my
sole duty. I watch his
eyes close. His creased
brow smooth. This is my
way I bring Daddy home
from war.