Poetry: Selections from Brenton Booth

Winter for a Young Poet

 

The young poet was

living in the tiniest,

crappiest apartment

in the red-light district.

It was the coldest day

of winter and the gas

and electricity had

already been shut off.

His summer clothes

and thin blanket made

him as balmy as a half-

eaten box of fish sticks

in a large industrial

freezer. He looked at

the brick wall a few

feet from his window.

Wondering what the

best way to end his

life would be. Soon

opening it. Examining

the substantial drop.

All the cigarettes,

broken bottles, and

garbage that had fallen

before him. Taking a

long, deep breath.

Having a final look

around his cheap,

shitty room. Suddenly

etching, "all you need

to survive is poetry",

on the cold, indifferent

wall.

Bradbury's Nightmare

 

The streets are all

silent. It is 4:31am.

Nothing but darkness

all around. Military

trialling robot dogs

to the delight of the

country. Obviously

no one has read

Fahrenheit 451. Next

the books will be

burned and anyone

with any sense at all

shall be imprisoned,

killed, or banished to

the fringes of the

cities. A new person

will take their places.

Sleek, metallic,

empty. Able to take

any order without

question. Never

a correction,

disagreement, or

argument about

higher salary. No

need for any salary

at all. Just work,

work: work! Life’s

new purpose to

work. Endless hours

without question,

or personal benefit.

The perfect race.

Coming soon to

a town near you.

Secrets of the Damned

 

I get another

form rejection

from the same

Los Angeles

editor. Was

sure this would

finally be the

one. Feeling

like he stabbed

through my

heart with a

long burning

quill pointed

straight to

hell. Finished

reading the first

unpublished

novel by the

great Los

Angeles writer

(that grew up in

snowy Denver)

with a full smile

and tickled soul

a few hours later.

A book filled

with honesty and

passion like no

other. Bandini!

Self-taught writer!

Published in

The American

Mercury and

Atlantic Monthly!

Signing his name

as his hero, Knut

Hamsun. Hating

Hemingway.

Drinking buddy

of Thornton

Wilder and

William Saroyan.

Stopped writing

after releasing 2

of the greatest

titles of the

modern age to

pen screenplays

for successful

films he refused

to give his name

to. John, I wish

I could say

otherwise, but

unfortunately

nothing has

changed. The

worst writers

still get all

the publishing

deals. Constantly

hearing how

far we have

come. We will

know how far we

have really come

when the books

finally become

readable and the

best writers don't

need to work as

dishwashers,

taxi drivers,

cannery workers,

bartenders,

sailors, ushers,

security guards,

store clerks,

janitors, deck

hands or

Hollywood

scriptwriters.

Regardless, all

that is in the

blurry distance

now fortunately.

Thank you,

Mr Fante, for

lighting this

dark unfortunate

day with such

brave, timeless

words. Steering

my pummelled

soul once more

from death to

resurrection.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. His poetry has appeared in New York Quarterly, Chiron Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Van Gogh's Ear, and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press.