Brit Parks is an American poet, writer, artist, and scholar living in Europe. Parks engages her poetry, theory, and art poetics as a study of language itself whilst discussing abstracts of ephemerality, materialism, and vulnerable myths. GLASS LIMBS, her full-length poetry book, was released in 2021. Her forthcoming book, STONE AMNESIA, will feature a collection of poetry and art poetics. She has published upwards of forty poems in international print publications, including five in the book SMEAR, edited by Greta Bellamacina, three in The London Magazine, and twelve in ALBION AN ISLAND ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS, by New River Press. Among other performances, she read her poetry at Shakespeare and Company Paris in 2019 and at Café Central in Menorca, Spain, in 2023. In 2020, she was commissioned to write a poem for the Monuments Men Foundation to honour the 75th anniversary of WWII. Her art poetics are featured in the Japanese photography book MONO by Hiroko Matsubara and Sofia Fanego as well as in Issue 3 of the London-based DOESN’T EXIST MAGAZINE. She is currently working with the Oxford School of Poetry, focussing on the poetics of film.
STUDY
Tears will not cease,
if you are past the fear belief,
case in gold dripping off Tut’s mask.
We worship ancients,
like they were coming back to check on us,
that a Pharaoh might turn up all the amps
and wait, melt the gold,
feed the children.
You are the salt flat, washed with a heart for seven.
Salt tumult will break your bones.
It may then be the soldier who waited in the dark
Your voice is the extension of
God in your burning skin,
wish for the sea
to return you perhaps in a salt bed, preserved.
I am swallowing your aqueduct.
If we shall be fellows of mercy,
let us molte vespre the relics, brought in our teeth,
of the fallen Aragons, for your gleamed eye sockets.
The idea of defence is the lurid architect of how we fit our mercy.
And in the stricken deadfall monument there were dry weepers.
Stone is an elegy to itself and we are its lickers incarnate.
Darling, there is a cathedral here.
It’s become a ghost of a wall of shrub varnish.
It’s preying on us with a gauze blindfold.
It’s gnawing at us with wax.
We are the evidence. We are the nocturnal-born criminals no one wanted, but everyone wired, hot-wired, hot wire. We are no longer a rose, toning that cracks what you are passing off as a heart.
My blood changed colour the first time you said my name.
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