Brandon Wint
Whatever lacks love will wither into impotence. Ultimately, this is mercy.
Poetry In Motion
From the Blog
The Next Time I Touch You
— No CommentsThe next time I touch you the next time you bury your fingers in my hair I want to do it in your bedroom where the walls might spy us kissing and “oooo” and giggle like modest school children. The next time I rest my forehead beneath your breasts the …
If You Want to Love Me
— No CommentsIf you want to love me kiss me on my belly for hours let me unravel stories onto your breasts if you do not mind loving me treat me like the moon fasten me around your neck take me to the ocean If you want to love me raise me …
Loneliness
— No CommentsDo not trust that your loneliness is real until you can feel your throat closing around every word of your hushed prayers. Or until your mouth feels too small and filthy a place to clutch anything so precious as ‘Dear God’. Do not trust it until your hands are too …
Queering The World
— One CommentAs many reading this post will know, I spend many (indeed, most) of my days sitting at square coffee-shop tables, devoting the precious creative hours of my life to the reading and writing of provocative poetic verse. As just as many people will know, that process of mine is usually …
Show Review (19/01/’13): A night of poetry, song, and profound cello
— 2 CommentsHi, everyone. From now on, whenever I am involved in a substantial show, or a show that moves me deeply, I am going to write a review of it. This will allow me to share the intimate perceptions of my life with those who may not be able to share …
Poetry: what exactly am I writing? (PAB2012 session)
— No Comments3 lbs. 11oz
— No CommentsWhen contractions grip her, it is morning. There is a bang in the kitchen where she slams the table. Her hand comes down on its face, she bends her body in half, wincing. in the living room her parents jump from the couch it is still early, still September. The …
Capital Slam slideshow and audio (11/01/ 2011)
— No CommentsThis is a tidy little slideshow created by a former Carleton University journalism student in the winter of 2011. The photos and soundbites featured here are compiled from the last night I slammed in Ottawa. It has been roughly fourteen months since I last spoke poetry with the lens of …
I May Never (Home)
— 2 CommentsI may never smell fresh cinnamon on an Indian woman’s brown fingers or see Guatemalan plums dangle like obsidian earrings on the lobes of rural trees. Nor may I play voyeur to the sun when it hides coyly behind Kenyan mountains but there are places I know where frost coats …
Breaking
— One CommentI found her standing alone her bare toes digging into the green pelvis of the valley that seperated us; her body shrouded in fog. I could not yet see her naked shoulders, the lime-juice white of her skin the golden strands of her hair shining like daylit wheat. I could …
