Biography of Daniel Brick
I was born in the late 1940s which makes me one of the BABY-BOOMERS. But we could also have been called PEACE-BABIES, because that's why so many of our parents wanted
to start families - a horrendous war had ended in total victory and the Great Depression had been replaced by the New Prosperity. My parents, from lower middle backgrounds, benefited from this prosperity and were truly grateful to God and Country. But peace did not last. Ultimately, the war-mongers of the century can always find a reason for violence, and I include our nation, almost continually fighting a war somewhere, in this criticism. I'm not talking about valid or invalid reasons for war but rather the brutal FACT OF WAR... I was introduced to poetry in grade school by several gifted seniors who volunteered to come to my grade school and recite poetry for us. I still remember I enjoyed them greatly but some of my peers mocked them. Then, as a junior in high school, I had a charismatic English teacher, Mr. Kurtz, who not only taught me how to read and interpret poetry but how to appreciate it. I became a lover of poetry at age 16.
Daniel Brick's Works:
NONE A note about this issue of publishing. I would give strong encouragement to anyone wanting to publish THEIR poems. I did work as the editor for a friend's poems about his experiences in the Vietnam War, moving tragic, poems, heightened by his love for the Vietnamese. I myself am fulfilled by posting my poems here at POEMHUNTER for a group of readers I know and admire. We share our poems with each other every week.
- A List Of Pousette-Dart -new-
- I Did Not Know -new-
- Always Nearing Home -new-
- The Poet Of The Lyric Voice -new-
- The Book Of Night - Eleven -new-
- The Book Of Night - Twelve -new-
- The Book Of Night - Ten -new-
- The Book Of Night - Nine -new-
- The Book Of Nightfour -new-
- Winter Twilight On An Ancient Battlefiel... -new-
- The Real Proof -new-
- Re My Next Talisman -new-
- An Account Of Despair, With A Prophecy
- A Prayer Of Thanksgiving To The Trinity
Daniel Brick Poems
After The Poet's Death
His poems refuse to mourn his passing, they detach themselves from books, magazines, wall hangings
The Abandoned Poem
I wrote a long poem for you this morning in the pure light of an untouched day.
Four Taoist Poems
I Scattered rocks lie beneath the moss-covered boulder.
Walking Through Autumn
September Powerlines along my path bristled with electric fire, scorching
The Other Daniel
He has better luck with women. He doesn't obsess over them, walks next to them with an easy gait, much like his unforced conversation. His smile is spontaneous,
The print is getting smaller for each book I try to read. I squeeze my sight to sharpen those ever smaller letters, which
A Degree Of Intensity
When a thing appears as a degree of intensity, we have nothing else than the existence of the thing in a world. Alain Badiou Contemporary philosopher
Monica spoke in her familiar soft voice, each word carrying its weight of sincerity. 'Daniel, I am, and always will be your Anima,
Half-Turned Pages A Love Poem
That autumn every time I looked out the window I saw two leaves fall from a maple tree in my yard. Always two leaves fell together
A Poetic Reverie Inspired By Music, Part...
Symphony No.8 by Anton Bruckner III. Adagio. Feierlich langsam, doch nicht schleppend The Dweller in the House
Lending My Voice For Paul
The light refuses to enter your narrow room but clings like a trellis to the southern window. It is a dim December Thursday. You slipped from wheelchair
The Occasional Traveler
This is a poem of male roads. It starts with an ordinary road made up of daily traffic plus the occasional traveler impulsively joining
A lone wolf howls into the night. Five wolves hear his cry and venture across the dark ground.
The Alone-Child, Age Eight
Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels, the tricycle inches forward toward the white house with white pillars. Squeaky wheels, squeaky wheels,
In summer, you were stunned
by green things blooming, bronzed
by heat released from every inch
of sky, carried across blue thresholds
by random winds. Oh, how you felt
this is the season of Forever!
'Come hither, ' urged bright morning
and you complied without a care.