Don Brennan – Clara Hsu

The Highest Good

Highest good is like water
Water is good for all things
but does not compete.
It lies in the lowest place
which all men disdain.
Therefore it is close to the Tao.
–Tao-te Ching VIII

I whispered into Don Brennan’s ear,”I’m interpreting the Tao-te Ching.” He would want to know this, lying on his deathbed. Not long ago he wanted us to get together to translate Li Po. I said yes, let’s. We had such a good time translating Li Po at Cafe La Boheme a few years ago, such a good time organizing Poets with Trees Readings in the parks, getting together once a month at the Poetry Salon, carpooling, cooking, eating…

And while I’m trying to handle life’s full-course meal Don decided that he had had enough. I found a file of his poems on my computer. He wrote them while helping me to take care of my dad.

AN EMPTY MINDFUL by Don Brennan

I will bear myself in my own arms
if you will simply explain how
we have come to find ourselves
surrounded by children of toddling age
demanding justice when they can barely
utter anything more significant than
all of the confounding mysteries that
neither of us has ever been able to
comprehend and then leave it to us
to fathom the uncharted depths of their
unaccountable laughter that cries for mercy.

How do they do that, and who do they
think they are, anyway, barely able to
run around at the level of our ankles and
knees, judging us without even knowing
what questions to ask?

I therefore promise to bear you and me together
with the lot of them in my sagging and weary arms
and agree to cease my whining and complaining
immediately as soon as we are able to glimpse by
looking into our own selves how to put an end
to the contemporary and relentless history of
random and intolerable suffering of the innocent,
thereby allowing all of us to live until we die in peace.

“Don, leave a little piece of your goodness to me.”

Don Brennan passed away on the morning of March 18, 2014.

The Deliverer

The version on youtube of TS Eliot reading his own work, The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock, is painfully uninteresting. There are a few other interpretations by various people. Only one, a young, high-pitched voice, has the kind of edginess I imagine J Alfred to be; but the verses are chopped up by an infantile video interpretation.

It doesn’t take much to turn a great dramatic monologue into a bore, but it does take intention and integrity of the deliverer to bring out the essence of a poem. Last night at the Sacred Grounds we had such a treat, when the featured poet Greg Pond received a standing ovation (a rarity) after his reading.

Besides his own poems, Greg chose to present the work of his friends. He clearly worked on each poem to bring out the drama and music. Greg personified the romance of Steve Mackin, the satire of Garrett Murphy, the mysticism of Jehanah Wedgwood, and the angst of Don Brennan. He read our poems better than we have read them. We were all giddy, after discovering a “side” of our poems that we had never imagined. We swore to improve ourselves as we chattered non-stop like school children, walking out into the night.

Five Minutes Of Fame

At open mike we usually get to read for five minutes. Sometimes less. But the concept of five minutes varies with individuals. That’s why the host of a poetry reading is often the time keeper. A nice little chime is too understated. Its sweetness can easily be ignored by the poet. A kitchen alarm works well, since it is meant to be loud. But I find it off-putting, especially when I’m immersed in something wonderful. The continuous beeping jerks me back into reality and destroys the magic of the moment.

There is really no good way to manage the five minutes. Poets are needy for attention and not good manager of themselves. To cut a poet off in the middle of delivery requires snap judgement and the skill of a surgeon. No one does it better than Don Brennan. He interjects when he hears a pause and in no uncertain terms tells the poet to stop. “OK. Time’s up.”

That is definitely better than having the audience booing at the end of an interminable narration and chiding the “rude” poet for taking up other people’s time.

Ground Beef Vs. Filet Mignon

When poets talk about other poets we come up with the damnedest analogy. But who is comparing, except those who think they are better than others? The Almighty looks down on earth and separates the ground beef from the filet mignon. No more is needed to be said.

Words are a poet’s toy. We play as children in the same sand pit until some clever beings decide to divide and conquer, bait us with fame and riches and whatever egotistical massage. If we take them seriously we’ll ultimately surrender our soul as well as our toy.

My friend Don Brennan is quick to block the butcher’s knife and stop the chopping before we all get sick. “I’m the loser poet.” He said it without a flinch, and we go back to playing with words as children.