Brian Doyle

Brian Doyle is editor of Portland Magazine at the University of Portland and author of Grace Notes, a collection of spiritual essays.

Articles by Brian Doyle

Poetry

A perplex raising

Mar 06, 2013 by Brian Doyle

The man on death row in the federal penitentiary writes to me
On lined loose-leaf paper that when he was a boy in the South
He was so absorbed by tent revivals that he knew he would be
A preacher, knew it in his deepest bones. I would stand on my
Bed and preach to the babies, and stand on a barrel and preach
To the chickens and the hogs, and preach the Word to the cow,
Who would not come to Jesus nor to anyone else neither. Well,
That is not how things turned out for me, which is a long story,
But what I want to get down in this letter is the blessings I had
When I was a boy. Now there is much to say that was not at all
In the least blessed, it was a violent and perplex raising we had,
But what I want to get down is that was a time of great wonder
And satisfaction for me because I knew what I was going to be.
I could spend a lot of time explaining how I came to not be that
Which I knew I was going to be but I have wasted enough time
In that fruitless pursuit. Thank you for reading this letter, which
Is a kindness on your part. It allowed me to remember a blessed
Time, there on the old barrel preaching the Word to the animals.

Poetry

The actual you

Feb 13, 2013 by Brian Doyle

What are the things I should know about being homeless
That I would never imagine myself? I ask a girl who was
Homeless from age thirteen to age seventeen. You never
Saw a nicer more pleasant neatly dressed kid in your life,
This kid. The only way you can tell who she used to be is
That she has a bunch of steel teeth. Any hint of difficulty,
She says, you move. Move anyways, on general principle.
Any safe spot you find will eventually be found by others.
As for new friends, trust but verify, as some old president
Said. Learn to lie with a totally straight face. Brush teeth!
I still have trouble not lying immediately and defensively.
That’s a problem for me. I got so good at it that it’s tough
To not be good at it anymore. The best way to get by is to
Perform, to not be who you really are, so the actual you is
Not in danger. You can shuck the person you perform like
A snake shucks a skin. Teachers here tell me I ought to be
In theater, I should try out for plays and musicals, but that
Is exactly what I am trying not to be, which is good at not
Being the real me anymore. Does this make sense? You’d
Be a natural, my teachers say, and I have to laugh because
Natural at not being me is who I don’t want to be anymore.

Poetry

The whole weasel question

Feb 01, 2013 by Brian Doyle

Consider the case of a mathematician, in this case
My oldest brother, who is (a) halved by an illness,
(b) stilled completely by it, and (c) reduced to ash.
Trust me, he would be the first to note that finally
He finished his travels at 0.00416666667 of what
He weighed for a long time. I bet then he’d spend
Weeks poking into what else weighed exactly that.
I’d get a terse note with a list in his meticulous ink:
The cardinal on average weighs 0.992 of a pound,
And the long-tailed weasel weighs exactly a pound.
A letter like that is exactly like a zen koan, I think.
It’s as much a door as a statement. Let us consider
That we have all just now received this terse letter.
It sits there grinning on the table next to the coffee.
I don’t know about you, but I am going to dive into
The whole weasel question. We have so little time,
And there’s so much to be discovered. I want to be
Able to be conversant about this the next time I see
My brother. He’ll want to know. He’ll have missed
A lot of time that could have been devoted to these
Things, and someone has to carry the ball, whether
It’s weasels or cardinals or cancer. How mortifying
It will be if he asks me about something, and I have
To say I didn’t pay attention, man, and he will stare
At me with that laser stare and not even have to say,
And what was it you did instead of paying attention?

Poetry

Poem for my brother to read silently in his bedroom window before the gregarious hospice nurse arrives

Jan 17, 2013 by Brian Doyle

The good sweet Lord knows I have nothing wise to say about anything
Whatsoever; certainly that has been proven over the last fifty-five years
That we have known each other. And while spiritual verve is inarguable,
Religious pronouncements at a time like this can sound awfully shallow.
So all I want to do this morning is find some word that can approximate
The love I feel. Affection and respect are ingredients, sure, and certainly
Laughter and stories, especially those that start out remember that time?,
Because stories are a terrific way to say things that you can’t find words
For. I keep wanting to push deeper, but I can’t get deeper than the story
Of the time we broke your finger—all us kid brothers attacking the king
At once, ostensibly in the flow of a football game, but really we wanted
To take you down, to miraculously drop the taoiseach, because we loved
You, because your were our hero, because you were the tallest and oldest,
Because you laughed, even with your finger bent in the wrong direction,
Knowing that we were so furious because a bruising tackle is a language
Also. You can say a lot about love by hammering your brother in a game,
It turns out. You knew what we were saying. I remember you taped your
Finger back together and didn’t bother to tell Mom. We admired that too.

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