I heard the voice of reasonswerve boneward as it mouthedthe high hills of Art.I know both sides:the violence of artifactand the living tree,airy branches full of weeds.Once a sitting thing in a thingthat stuck me back, I walkstraight out in heavy rain,trying not to aim,his lungs gum-thick,each word towed out with a chainpulled simultaneously back.I make another motion,send a jagged gift.Days are dams.Each week postsa sign above the water.This week: Goodbye.Last week: The Possible.I close the dam of The Possible,open the dam of Goodbye.Its aperture is a mouthpasted mostly shut.Through welding glass,see astral green.I look for freckle Venus.It’s gone, or on the blurred brink of sun.These days, dream is a terrorunromantic to disclose.Take up its visions like fruit in arms.Forget them in the cold barrel of the sun.
Venus Transit
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“Venus Transit” from BLADE WORK: by Lily Brown.
Published by Parlor Press on January 7, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 by Lily Brown.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
Lily Brown is the author of Blade Work, winner of the New Measure Poetry Prize (Parlor Press, 2025), and the 2026 Maine Book Award for Poetry, Rust or Go Missing (Cleveland State University Poetry Center), and several chapbooks, including The Haptic Cold (Ugly Duckling Presse). She lives in Maine with her family and works as a writing teacher.
The poems in Blade Work explore the relationship between humans and both the natural and built environments, questioning the violence we do to nature and its creatures, along with the industrial landscapes we traverse in our daily lives. Thinking through our relationship to nature, the poems also wonder how nature relates to us, questioning the power dynamics in this fraught connection.
"In the tradition of such poets as Laura Jensen, Jean Valentine, and Saskia Hamilton—yet utterly their own—Lily Brown’s poems spring from ordinary enough spaces—the natural world, domestic life and what goes on there—but as if these were the understory to a vast forest of waking dream, of the 'general and particular/rhymed to dream’s interior.' The poems are governed, I would add, by dream’s particular, elusive, strange logic, all the stranger for how persuasive and authoritative it is while refusing to be mapped or, indeed, explained. I trust these poems, as I trust their way of thinking—a way that, by the book’s end, feels like the only way of proceeding: not past mystery, but deeper, into it."
—Carl Phillips
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