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Brenda grew up in Wolfville and now lives in Pleasant Valley, Yarmouth County, surrounded by
gardens and wildlife. Although she has recently completed her first YA novel, Nightingales Don’t Cry,
this is a new genre for her. Her two decades of teaching at Yarmouth High School proved to be an
invaluable source of both inspiration and insight. This novel won the first-place Joyce Barkhouse
Award for YA fiction in the 2008 Atlantic Writing Competition. It is currently in the market for a
publisher.
Brenda has been writing poetry for many years and excerpts from her poems have also made their way
into Nightingales Don’t Cry as chapter introductions. She has published two collections, Cleansing
(Rising Tide Press 2005) and Beeline (Lopside Press 2007).
Brenda has been recognized as a finalist in several poetry competitions, including Writers’ Federation
of NS, Glimmer Train Poetry Open, Winning Writers War Poetry Contest, Poetry Superhighway, and
Interboard Poetry Competition (IBPC) sponsored by Web del Sol. In 2008, she was the only poet to
have two pieces included among the six IBPC finalists for Poem of the Year.
Her work has appeared in Houston Panhandler, Epicenter, Halifax Magazine, Lily Lit Review and
other publications. One of her sonnets, The Last Mate, was selected for inclusion in Jailbreaks: 99
(Biblioasis 2008), an anthology of the editor’s favorite Canadian sonnets written by ninety-nine
different poets over the past hundred years.
gardens and wildlife. Although she has recently completed her first YA novel, Nightingales Don’t Cry,
this is a new genre for her. Her two decades of teaching at Yarmouth High School proved to be an
invaluable source of both inspiration and insight. This novel won the first-place Joyce Barkhouse
Award for YA fiction in the 2008 Atlantic Writing Competition. It is currently in the market for a
publisher.
Brenda has been writing poetry for many years and excerpts from her poems have also made their way
into Nightingales Don’t Cry as chapter introductions. She has published two collections, Cleansing
(Rising Tide Press 2005) and Beeline (Lopside Press 2007).
Brenda has been recognized as a finalist in several poetry competitions, including Writers’ Federation
of NS, Glimmer Train Poetry Open, Winning Writers War Poetry Contest, Poetry Superhighway, and
Interboard Poetry Competition (IBPC) sponsored by Web del Sol. In 2008, she was the only poet to
have two pieces included among the six IBPC finalists for Poem of the Year.
Her work has appeared in Houston Panhandler, Epicenter, Halifax Magazine, Lily Lit Review and
other publications. One of her sonnets, The Last Mate, was selected for inclusion in Jailbreaks: 99
(Biblioasis 2008), an anthology of the editor’s favorite Canadian sonnets written by ninety-nine
different poets over the past hundred years.
| Click on titles of the poems below to hear a reading. Then, visit the other Reading Lounges. You'll find the menu at the bottom of the page. |
| Lens Implant My left eye counts bricks on an apartment behind the hospital. My right eye paints grey-brown smears without lines or glass. Half the sky is warm; the rest, indifferent - a white imbalance. Its unsteady horizon glows with blood wash lining my bruised lid. But of course! Something has cut me, entered by force: rings of firebursts against a green drape. "Lie still," he says. My plastic parachute opens in aqueous. I see as a child now - not through a glass darkly. My mirrorself climbs cheek-ladders. When did I grow old? In my sinister iris, a gleam like mercury closes the entrance. I am a werewoman transfixed by light, awaiting completion. It is wet-red-salt that clarifies me. The world comes in, the soul leaks out. I cover my new sight with a terrified hand. |
| Photograph by David Robinson* |
| Naamah Speaks He could have left the snakes. I've muscled out too many children not to hate the curse of Eve - no promised lands can reimburse me for that misery! And yet, this boat must have its conscience - so, despite my doubt, the serpents lurch aboard. My universe resounds with whinnies, hisses, squawks. I nurse my latest son, card wool, milk cow and goat: the tasks a woman owns. No poison tooth could dare suggest I am unhappy. Still, I press my jaws together, biting truth into a hundred pieces. Not until we reach the mountains will I dream again of anything but beasts, or babes. Or rain. |
| Photo by Brenda LevyTate* |
| Photograph by Forrest Croce* |
| Thinking Outside the Box He understands cages - how steel keeps him from being touched. The breathless distance between himself and every other warm thing. He scratches his own neck. It hurts: he is real, having dreamed his way into this room where no one speaks, though a girl leaves rainprints. He knows he was handsome before the ditch took him - wheels hissing, sharp grass teasing his belly. He never asked to be incarcerated. He cannot tell kindness from water or the small wash of light under a door. He measures time in bowls, and blankets filled with sleep. He believes in these. He is terrified to be released, lose his one freedom, even walk away. Nothing kills quicker than absence of bars. When the raingirl comes, he cringes. |
| Tsunami Prelude Salt water curls back - tongue against sky roof. Mud sucks and hisses, salivary, raw red gleaming to horizon like a muscle sheath. It is miraculous, this wrenched ocean, sudden absence of tide. Even gulls are astonished. Thin cloud scallops edge emptiness. Blind bivalves sputter and spout as I cross their wet bed. Caught among flotsam, barnacled pine-limbs point fingerbones. Impaled, a child's photo grins grey, wavers. My own eyes (little changed), bedraggled hair-bow, missing tooth. No acne yet. I refuse to save myself. Beside a tampon case, my jewel-box gapes, pink and broken. It may have just given birth to something unnameable. Storm petrels knife into the wind. To my left, an old man bends toward a stained helmet; three women on my right drape prom dresses over their arms - lace bodices, tulle skirts. Half-buried in silt, an Evening in Paris bottle reminds me I'm allergic. But today's scents are kelp, rust, blended fresh remains. This is too large a harvest for one season. Diaries with vinyl covers; teen dolls holding tiny 45s. Worn saddle shoes (brown trim, not the black I wanted). Oak cane - I know it from my closet debris. Scattered costume beads, brooches, safety pins, cracked glass goblets. Decanter I once gave my dad for his birthday. I stamp on a wedding ring with cheap diamond chips. Circular imprint: perfect fake clamhole. Dried-rose-petal dervishes blow across cumuli. Ululations (ecstasy? anguish?) roil heat haze. On the beach, girls' cries disturb this universe. Freight-train-thundershake. Tourists yell run in their language. Not mine. Along a naked seafloor, silver leaps joyous and unintelligent. When the rro-ooo-ll is called up yo-o-onder. I'm not sure where I'll be, except not there. The promdress ladies are gone, nothing left but a mohair stole. I wrap myself in woolscratch, recall Nana knitting its duplicate. Senior year. It scrapes at my skin like an oyster knife. I lie down, open myself. We'll drown, the old man reassures me. Foam gargles toward us. That's the point. |
| Spring Dance Route 22 ripples to an axle beat as the red pickup approaches. Puddles pulse, wheels veer, water arcs like a tide parting before the F-150's tire hiss. Beer cans snicker beneath ice-wire-wink. Sleet coats cables, gone by noon. Pavement's a mosaic -- broken headlights, embedded pennies. Mouse bones crunch under Goodyear studs. First tractor out of the yard wallows with a pulmonary wheeze in muck stubble. Field's black, twisted as abandoned shirts. An old collie three-legs it down the chain track because that's what he was born to do. In a heifer-gnawed grove behind the loafing shed, deer scrabble snow crust under bare oaks; limbs scratch cloudskins. Mated robins drop sky bits onto dull moss. New melt trinkles and plishes off the gambrel-roof barn. On the porch step, farmboy smooths his trout filament between forefinger and thumb, feeds it into the Shakespeare with a handful of hope. The day flows around him -- river and rock -- while mother sings from her clothesline, "Fare thee well, love," hazel gaze a salamandrine fire that burns what it touches. He listens, furrows deep as plowed dirt above his eyes; matches reel spin to wash-pulley creak. Milkroom radio chatters about foreclosures, lost soldiers and protests against a mine two counties away. Fishhook snags the little fellow's thumb. Long driveway rasps its monotone; gravel shoulders shrug still-frozen clods into ditches. Muddy Ford swerves, bumps over brushcut lawn, halts beside a lattice arbor where rambling roses will soon explode like ruptured hearts. Woman-song stops. She turns - sliced lemon smile - carries her laundry basket, sets it down carefully. Then she straightens to confront the truck, but won't glance at her son. Not even once. Out on bleeding earth, her husband inhales the dark diesel, whistles off-key. "This will be no ordinary April," he assures his crippled dog. Photos for this poem Brenda Levy Tate* |
| Carol for the Brokenhearted Can you hear the whole sky ringing? I watch you stumble under its alleluia bell. Your bare feet string a dozen prints like pearls across the December grass. These soles are your only stars, girl. Hours, days, years - every last wound you'll ever endure - catch in the silty net you drag behind, sans mermaids, moths or seraphs' teeth. Your uncombed dreams pour down your face, white as salt. Listen, the sea is shifting in sleep. It's Christmas, and you are unparented again. We both wait in this empty inn-yard; a few stray gods quarrel behind their curtain. Since they have been replaced, no doubt they can discount one more failed prayer, one more gloria in excelsis. A feather zags its way to earth. This is only an owl's trick, girl. If you pick it up, you will be lost. Can't you feel the darkness gathering itself? Midnight snaps shut, a padlock against hope. Tomorrow is ordinary, as you must surely expect by this time. Come into the pub-light where a solitary barman offers decent ale and music for all the bruised people. We are among them, we whose homes and lovers have blown like scarves over the world's edge. Here's to absent friends, someone says. I lift a mug; foam spatters my right hand. A nearby church peals one o'clock and I almost believe in something. Then I look down at the tabletop reflecting your face. Its eyes turn to knotholes, beaten into the wood. Its mouth is the crack under a door. You've damned me, girl, with a feather saved from dirt. Now you wear it in your hair. Self-portrait, Sarah Ashley Wood* |
| I no gone cat, you just not see me (as told to Brenda Levy Tate by Sam) I almost sleeping when he come. He say, “Cat, why you not look up? Eyes see all that be, until breath stop. Watch with eyes.” When I open, he shine like morning, right here in scary place. Two-leg mother with me, talk touch, talk touch. I not try stretch out claws, even after she hurt my ear and trap me tight for bring where are other sick ones. “She love you,” Sun Cat say, “so she want help you better but not time now for her do that.” He stand close and then I sitting beside him with no sore ear, and ribs not breaking under. Puss on table lie quiet, black-white like me. He big fluffy boy with paws curled and hay in tail. “What barn cat be this?” I not want new enemy and he mighty long fur but no move, him. Red earstick and face shut off. “He be you, name Sam.” Now I not smartest scratcher in litter box but I know me and not-me, and him not me. He stiff as shavings frozen in stall when I dig for cover pee. He a dead old buddy. I with friend who glowing all around. It dark everywhere but Gold Mister jump-- just like that--off table in air. “Hurry,” he call me. “You not my only today.” And we outside, where is car and Two-leg mother. She cry water salt on box in arms and other two-leg carry cage but it empty. We watch her go away and I very sad for I remember she have love me. “You tell goodbye,” Gold Mister speak and surprise me. “Where your barn is?” Before I answer, we there. Stray tom stand in loft where I like fight him. “No,” Gold Mister tell me though I not talk this. “His now. He need home; you have fine other place. Not worry about him more.” Tom my enemy once but I no problem for him now. Farm dogs run, maybe smell me. They stop in path and grin so I tell what happen. Hope they figure out. “You gone away?” young stupid one ask. Grey-muzzle lick at shadow and understand. “We meet soon,” I tell her. How I know? Others not outdoors but we are in house and not through window, either. “They allow see you this one day,” Sun Cat explain, so I say we miss each other. I make sorry for not always be friendly. I mean son-of-a-tabby sometimes. Car in driveway and Gold Mister show me strange thing. Two-leg mother dig deep deep deep, toss earth stones roots and put plastic bag at bottom. It have paw press against, white like Sam foot. Wet in there so she shovel throw sawdust too. “That from pile beside window where I napping in winter.” Gold Mister not speak. “Why I leave her? Just young fellow; needed here, me.” He spin bigger than fireball that fall from summer. “Job done,” he roar. “You get her ready for bigger sorrow.” I understand what he mean. She have tiny woman- mother who very sick. She lose me, learn get strong. But hard not tell her I watching. She never even hear meow or feel tail brush, before snow cover not-me. “You visit back one time,” is all what I allowed. Then he tell me stare at sun, no see home anymore. They aster flowers where we hunt today. Old cat mama near, even Siamese friend find me. Gold Mister teach me how go back, be some new kitten when I finish learning. But this good place and I happy Sam now. RIP Sam. Photo by Brenda Levy Tate* |
| Photo by Brenda Levy-Tate* |
| With a Poet's Eyes: The photography and music of Brenda Levy Tate |
| Lyrics Circus Rides Round and round, up and down, Don't know where I'm going. Off beside me, on the ground, Faces all are flowing. Clutching to my bit of time, I wonder at its meaning. Over the edge of the whirling line, I sense my body leaning. Refrain: Circus rides are for children; Wooden horses just aren't real. Though I may seem grown-up now, It's a child's fear I feel. Spinning, spinning through a gleam Of mirrors, brass and passion, Still I'm pulled into your dream, Still drawn by your attraction. Turning back, I close my eyes And hear the song you sent me. But when the circle of music dies, The horse you rode is empty. Refrain: Flashing, flashing in the sun, With its banners flying, Goes this toy made just for fun, But I alone am crying. I can't tame this carousel, I'll leap off and race away. Maybe it is just as well; It's for children anyway. |
| Lopside Press presents |
| Beeline poems by Brenda Levy Tate To order, click here |
*The following applies to all The Well-ReadHead and all its content:
Poems, readings and illustrations by Carla Martin-Wood are Copyright 2009 Carla Martin-Wood. All rights reserved. This material may
not be reproduced in any form, published, recorded, performed, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. All such actions are strictly
prohibited under law.
Likewise, all poems read by or explicitly attributed to visiting poets on this site are the property of such visiting poets and are under
copyright by them, and all photographs and illustrations appearing on this site are the property of the designated photographers
and/or illustrators and are under copyright by the respective poets, artists, illustrators and photographers. All rights reserved. Such
material may not be reproduced in any form, published, recorded, performed, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. All such actions
are strictly prohibited under law.
Video and designated photos ©2009, Brenda Levy Tate. Photograph of Emma in Seattle shelter cage by and property of Forrest
Croce, licensed under Creative Commons 2.5 Source: Wikimedia Commons Photograph of lens surgery by and property of David
Robinson, licensed under GNU Free Documentation Source: Wikimedia Commons. Self-portrait "Reflection" ©2009, Sarah Ashley
Wood.
Please see my Links page for a list of the various sites that have graciously provided some of the gifs for The Well-ReadHead. Please
visit their websites for more information.
The Well-ReadHead, Copyright 2009, Carla Martin-Wood, all rights reserved. Reproduction in any form is strictly prohibited under law.
Poems, readings and illustrations by Carla Martin-Wood are Copyright 2009 Carla Martin-Wood. All rights reserved. This material may
not be reproduced in any form, published, recorded, performed, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. All such actions are strictly
prohibited under law.
Likewise, all poems read by or explicitly attributed to visiting poets on this site are the property of such visiting poets and are under
copyright by them, and all photographs and illustrations appearing on this site are the property of the designated photographers
and/or illustrators and are under copyright by the respective poets, artists, illustrators and photographers. All rights reserved. Such
material may not be reproduced in any form, published, recorded, performed, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed. All such actions
are strictly prohibited under law.
Video and designated photos ©2009, Brenda Levy Tate. Photograph of Emma in Seattle shelter cage by and property of Forrest
Croce, licensed under Creative Commons 2.5 Source: Wikimedia Commons Photograph of lens surgery by and property of David
Robinson, licensed under GNU Free Documentation Source: Wikimedia Commons. Self-portrait "Reflection" ©2009, Sarah Ashley
Wood.
Please see my Links page for a list of the various sites that have graciously provided some of the gifs for The Well-ReadHead. Please
visit their websites for more information.
The Well-ReadHead, Copyright 2009, Carla Martin-Wood, all rights reserved. Reproduction in any form is strictly prohibited under law.
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