Tag Archives: ST Brant

A Question and an Answer

By S. T. Brant

How do you write? How can you think? How can you be free? There is no way…

You’re looking for no place. You have come about in an age where angels are dead,

all stars dying. 

Dwindling instead of burning, 

meaning without Meaning.

Bonaventura didn’t claim the self was god,

though I wish he did.

He said the self can become- can join god. 

The self can never be lost,

it can always be augmented. 

All things lead back to center; 

all can be absorbed, 

all leads up.

There is no distinction between lost and found; 

The self is always journeying,

so if it’s lost it’s on its way;

if it’s sure of itself, it should keep the path.

The journey never wavers from the soul’s circumference. 


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Defense of Wonder

By S. T. Brant

What is there worth Wondering if all’s inclined against it;
If all’s determined to destroy the wonder and amazement
Innate in us: If the world to wonder at defies our wondering,
Is our natural sense of wonder not an antagonist to Nature
And to god that we are stubborn devils in the pit wasting
Mystic powers pouting, O earthly interpreter of heaven? 
O align with Bonaventure, with our grandest saints-

the path to what’s worth terming god
is through the world that hopes we discover 
in it the wonder that reaches for it; 

it is our worldly robes that obstructs
our heart’s wonder from touching
the wonder in the lowly stones.

Wonder wants to wander and wants wonder.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Love as Job

By S.T. Brant

Love never rests. It moves, in Death, you to and fro

over glades, dells, the moor,

Deserts, what land there is to trespass; loves do so

hand in hand. Death

Is the wind that chills the living’s skin, but lovers

are not disquieted,

They amble in the weather as though all is sunshine

always and nosegays

Lined created. They may. For those that stroll the earth

contented in eternity;

Sleepless through the legion sorrows fought off

in life; to ramble

With amorous, undefeated spirits in rumored darkness,

though their spirits’ armor,

Its dents and scars and cavities from life’s swords show:

Love moves them all

The more on and on and on past the power their gravestones.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram

Eros in Eden

By S.T. Brant

So Dante hears Francesca 
Say the hurricane is worth
The hell for Paolo.
Dante says that any hell 
Is worth Francesca,
There is no sin in love, 
God’s in error. So he fainted
On the bluff before the storm,
Blacked out with the doubt
That in wretched coterie
Could seat him there.

So I’ve stumbled on the Tree of Love,
Its leaves drop the lessons of our literature.


S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas. Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Timber, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others. You can find him on Twitter or Instagram.