Bøger af Gregg G Brown

This Broken Shore is a literary magazine featuring poetry, short fiction, essays, and book reviews from New Jersey-connected writers.

A victim of depression during the composition of these verses, I noticed an inability or unwillingness to assign purpose within myself-I was lax and ready to suffer unmitigated disasters with little more than a shrug and a tear. This is really a rather hopeless state of affairs-as a number of the poems outline. I remained staunchly impressed, however, with Dame Nature's capacity to excite the recognition of meaning within myself. As meaningless and adrift as I may have been, I could not help but notice that Nature still evoked in me the wry acknowledgement of a more masterful hand in the pictures I kept seeing-both before me and within me. "No Wood to Sing Through" shows the adaptability of natural instincts and impulses. It was inspired by my observation of a catbird still thriving without its native habitat, and by my own reflection that I was seeing something meaningful-even when my depression had revoked my self as any inherent source of meaning. Something was helping meaning to survive even in the brain of someone who refused to acknowledge any meaning. Something in me wanted, at least, for meaning to survive-or, more exactly, for the expression and acknowledgement of meaning to continue happening, despite my conscious wishes. This is a form of nature's nurturing weather-it is harsh and humbling. Can't I be meaningless if I want to? Don't take that shred of self- definition away from me! But, opposite of Sartre perhaps, it seems that meaning remains contiguous with essence, even when that essence wishes to exile meaning. It is this co-created weather of inner and outer that is charted in this volume of verses.

The main item in the inventory of Venus and Vesuvius, as you will soon plainly see, is an adolescent male I have dubbed Sir Absurdio. Absurdio is left alone on the planet Venus where he was born, the only son of two intrepid scientists appointed to explore our over-heated solar neighbor. Why he has been left so tragically alone, and at such a crucial age, our tale will unfold.

This Broken Shore is a literary journal featuring New Jersey-connected writers. It includes poetry, literary history, book reviews, essays, and short fiction. Featured authors include Robert Pinsky, Thomas Reiter, Michael Waters, Emanuel di Pasquale, Susanna Rich, Alexander Dickow, Boni Joi, and others. It also includes art by Ronna Lebo, Katie Anne Stone, Rachel Weeks, and Jared Weeks.

A literary magazine featuring poetry, fiction, book reviews, essays and articles by and about New Jersey writers.

This Broken Shore is an annual literary journal, featuring poetry, fiction, literary criticism, and theater reviews from writers connected to New Jersey.

JOHN MUIR'S AUGUST HEAD John Muir's queer and sundry quotations and exclamations shine through pane after pane of Yosemite Valley's buildings. Less a ghost and more of a sacred mascot, his bearded visage seems to hang down from every shaggy tree and to impose itself in the crinkled cliff-shadows on every side of this immense religious fosse into which tourists pour as amply as blood or wine. "How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountain!" "I never saw a discontented tree." "The mountains are calling, and I must go." My other books on CreateSpace are: createspace.com/3842640 Of flares, of flowers (142 erotic sonnets) createspace.com/3679722Greetings from Mt. Olympus (Collected poems) createspace.com/3671917 Sipping Beer in the Shadow of God (Travel Notes and Prose Poems in the spirit of Basho) createspace.com/3646295 Evil Interludes (Novella inspired by the life of the French symbolist poet, Charles Baudelaire) createspace.com/3679708 The Singing Well (YA coming-of-age novel)

Collected poems of Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]Questioning Is QuestingWestern civilization is in a cul-de-sac. At the end of that cul-de-sac is a guillotine. Beside that guillotine stands the hulking executioner in his greasy black hood. Through that hood peer two red, maddened eyes. Below those eyes, as through a lazy tear, shows a long, slavering wolf-thin grin. Lightning stitches knots in the dead, leaden skies. Thunder interrupts the prayers for the dead. Doom. DOOM. DOOM.Even so, my life is filled with primroses and wishes. I sit here--or lie, rather, languid as an American Oblamov rolled in his snoozy comforter-- building my empire of words.I've spent long, sad years loving people I never could come to know. Strangers whose alien minds lived other lives, pattering after petty pursuits I never really could come to understand. Now I fear that my own kindness and lack of company has led me, in an easy dream of desperation, to see Helen in every barmaid's face.Cold are the coals I have gathered, betrayed by a generous impulse that led me to love first and question second. Over evil rapids I have roved, slouching to the salt dissolution of the sea, who should have been climbing heavenward with Manfred--my eye upon some solitary cloud-wracked peak where every subtle shifting shape suggests a new, unborn greatness (or an old noble greatness renewed) to the seeker's keen and lonely imagination. Instead, I have sunk my mind among warm elbows at a crowded table, seeking fellowship in banal company and dissipating what genius drifts to me in shrunken rounds of tavern talk. Few have been the companions time has tested true. I recall my Mom, downed in her home hospital bed and not the bed of her marriage, pointing at my nose with a red, imperious finger, demanding first and foremost (loved son or no) that I "tell it true."To that improbable pipsqueak queen, crippled yet proud as the devil in her flowered hospital gown--and to her regal charge--I keep my pledge.I do not condemn others for my misjudgments, but, looking at the litter of years, I begin to perceive that there was something of method in my mismeasure. Questioning is questing. Leaving a question open encourages all comers to the query to have the experience of exploration; each hypothesis is happy to go unconfirmed, as long as the hypotenuse is mutually traveled by writer and reader in the coracle of a quatrain. There is something of Emerson in this energy of questioning, but none of his faith in God's final ground, the rock of reality.May such dubious wisdom as my pain has gathered serve me well henceforward. May the narrowing of possibilities sharpen my focus, as when a saltine's pinhole, brought close to the eye, removes the blur of distant things, clarifying every tiny difference and shutting out peripheral static.It is only now, as this labor of years surrounds me on every desktop, that I am coming to feel that the best strength of my youth has been wasted elaborating a maze of quizzes instead of attempting to soar, however falteringly, into the omniscient sun. Was it a deficit of pride that had me prefer puzzles to plumage? Or some more insidious hidden desire to be touted and touched instead of respected and feared? Well, here I am again, ending each sentence with my shepherd's crook (?) instead of the thunder god's triumphant stab and pang! So much of our humanity is mist and mystery; so many of our hours slide by in incapable ignorance. But what makes our lives worth the sinning that created them is the moment the mirror comes clear, as if in a revelation, and every face confronts the tragedy of its character.

"When the Moon Melts" The dwarf's hideous face retreated from the basement window, an array of grimy grey whiskers and a radish nose. "When the moon melts And the Gods of Autumn roam Evil and good are equally felt And nothing certain is known," Chanted Mr. Plimsoul and the lady together. Wild shadows flickered around them, and they gestured toward the shut box, black and shiny as a beetle's back. They seemed to be trying to compel the box to open or spontaneously erupt in flame...or something. "Casket of Augersaal, I command you: open!" Mr. Plimsoul shouted, making a weird gesture at the box. "By Neamiahas' eye, by Qyudditch's kin, I say: unfasten!" the lady hissed, her boa and her long arms gesturing in the flickering light of the braziers. The casket hopped on the sawhorses once, as if a person inside were being tickled or kicked, and then was still. A thin jet of purple smoke sizzled from one end of the casket... and then stopped. My other books on CreateSpace are: createspace.com/3842640 Of flares, of flowers (142 erotic sonnets) createspace.com/3679722Greetings from Mt. Olympus (Collected poems) createspace.com/3671917 Sipping Beer in the Shadow of God (Travel Notes and Prose Poems in the spirit of Basho) createspace.com/3646295 Evil Interludes (Novella inspired by the life of the French symbolist poet, Charles Baudelaire) createspace.com/3679708 The Singing Well (YA coming-of-age novel)

A collection of ekphrastic poetry, along with a section of poems reflecting on the poet's inspiration, or lack thereof.According to "The Poetry Foundation" An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the "action" of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.

This Broken Shore is an annual literary journal, featuring poetry, fiction, literary criticism, and theater reviews from writers connected to New Jersey.

Collected plays in verse of Gefg Glory [Gregg G. brown]

This Broken Shore is a literary magazine featuring poetry, short fiction, essays, and book reviews from New Jersey-connected writers.

A collection of world-history conscious poetry, thumbnail character-portrait poems, and a farewell to the arts by a distempered punk.

Circumnavigating the Medulla Oblongata A note concerning the basic attitude of this book of stories. The story-telling of a stained-glass window. The minutae of a moment recorded through a fly's eye. The strange tales and weird memos of a modern-day Moses. All these are closer to the spirit of the stories in this collection than the usual DOs and DON'Ts of the narrative art. There's a freedom of freak-dom in being a miniaturist of the psyche, a landscape artist with the pallatte of a portrait painter. Rules are more like napkin sketches of escape plans to cross some foreign border at night, the rain tumbling against the passenger train's oblong panes, the moon no more than a rumor. Gregg Glory January, 2014