In Memory of Sean Brendan-Brown (1961-2023)
It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of writer, Sean Brendan-Brown. A two-time winner of the National Endowment of the Arts fellowship for poetry and short fiction, and a graduate of the University of Iowa Writer’s Center, Brendan-Brown passed away September 17, 2023, surrounded by those who loved him. He was 62.
Brendan-Brown is an award-winning author of multiple poetry chapbooks and collections, including Everything Repeated Many Times and The West is a Golden Paradise; and fiction works, such as Monarch Of Hatred, Brother Dionysus, and Beat it to Fit, Paint it to Match: Collected Short Stories 2000-2015. A prolific author, he has published (as himself and as Fernand Roqueplan) with the Notre Dame Review, Wisconsin Review, Indiana Review, Southampton Review, and the University of Iowa Press anthologies American Diaspora and Like Thunder.
Brendan-Brown’s writing defied easy categorization. He shunned the pompous and the pedantic, and instead embraced the collisions of chaos, death, change, faith, loyalty, and passion. These moments, even in their most violent forms, he captured with beauty and hope.
Born in Madison, Wisconsin, Brendan-Brown spent his early years on the beaches of Hawaii before moving to Texas. An Eagle Scout, an acolyte, and an honors student, he worked a summer in the Texas oil fields with his brother before joining the Marine Corps. He traveled extensively to Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. He was decorated and medically retired for his service before he was 30.
Brendan-Brown lived in Olympia, Washington, with his wife and a beloved beagle. His newest book of poems, Super Collider, will be published in the fall of 2024 by Tri-Color Press.
Everything Repeated Many Times
By Sean Brendan-Brown
Met a man on a downtown Biloxi bus,
his affliction some doctor must
have phrases or explanations for:
everything repeated many times.
He described his house, called his house
yellow yellow yellow just like that;
thought maybe his mind worked in threes
then he said his favorite color—red
red red red. I wasn’t sorry for him
or irritated, thought how nice
having a head jabbed full of words
stripped of eloquence,
sophistry and oration tripped up:
afflicted with everything
repeated many times,
how difficult it would be to lie.
Told me his name name name—
John. I asked him again and he said
“my name name name is John.”
Leashed to description
we call and contain, trammeled by ego
we badger and bestow.
“This is my stop stop
stop stop stop,” John said, “the casino
With the red red red neon swordfish.”
Someone laughed and John stepped down.
When my turn came I whispered it a block
early to see how it sounded: stop stop
stop stop stop