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Young Santa
A "quietly astonishing" vision of sainthood (Los Angeles Review of Books), sketched in luminous short poems.
Young Santa speaks in animal tracks and simples of the moon. He gets lost in the land of seeds and snow. He does not know what he does not know. In short-form poems 'worthy of Bashō or Dōgen' (David Mutschlecner), Deany-Braun prefigures Father Christmas as 'a saint of poetry' (Anne Waldman).
Young Santa speaks in animal tracks and simples of the moon. He gets lost in the land of seeds and snow. He does not know what he does not know. In short-form poems 'worthy of Bashō or Dōgen' (David Mutschlecner), Deany-Braun prefigures Father Christmas as 'a saint of poetry' (Anne Waldman).
88 pages, Paperback
Published September 15, 2025
About the author
Joe Deany-Braun
2 books7 followersJoe Deany-Braun is a bookseller and poet. He lives in northern Colorado.
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
November 16, 2025
"Did you / know that need is love / in the wild?"
This debut poetry collection by Joe Deany-Braun left me thinking of one of my favorite quotes from Emily Dickinson: "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." This book delivers to Dickinson's sentiment in every way, with poems that left me in goosebumps. The last poem in particular hit me hard, while being the perfect example of how white space can effectively impact a reader. Really remarkable work.
This debut poetry collection by Joe Deany-Braun left me thinking of one of my favorite quotes from Emily Dickinson: "If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry." This book delivers to Dickinson's sentiment in every way, with poems that left me in goosebumps. The last poem in particular hit me hard, while being the perfect example of how white space can effectively impact a reader. Really remarkable work.
June 7, 2026
Before he became caricatured as a jolly old elf slugging coke with polar bears and doling out petroleum-based chachkis faster than Am*z*n, Santa was an itinerant wanderer, a Christian mystic, a tang dynasty style poet in exile questioning his faith. Ignore the detractors, kids. Santa is real.
January 8, 2026
in the place
where I do my reading
under soft light
in sight of
both the kitchen and office
but still away
where young santa
was sometimes coaster, sometimes inspiration
but always present
and for you
it could be the same
I am sure
where I do my reading
under soft light
in sight of
both the kitchen and office
but still away
where young santa
was sometimes coaster, sometimes inspiration
but always present
and for you
it could be the same
I am sure
September 9, 2026
A collection of tiny, meditative poems centered around a youthful version of our planet's favorite folkloric figure? Sign me up. This collection was full of wonder and heart.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO SANTA
A human is
born who will surely die.
God help us.
THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO SANTA
A human is
born who will surely die.
God help us.
April 26, 2026
From form, wilderness.
Young Santa reminds me of those fractal animations that start out simple enough: it's just a leaf, right? But as the camera zooms in, the waxy green surface gives rise to a more complex pattern, and zooming in on that pattern gives rise to an even more unexpected, immense topography, so that zooming in begins to feel, paradoxically, like zooming out, until the reader is humming along like an engine, the microscopic and the immense like pistons, giving the repeated and delightful sensation of stepping into cupboards that open onto one Narnia after another, complete with snowy ranges, precipitous drops, and even unexpected, delightful characters on parallel quests, bushwhacking the scrub, out to catch gods of their own.
When I think of this book, I don't just think of a collection of poems, which can so often feel like a static composition. I see the epic narrative of a young wanderer alone in the mountains, the primordial monk before the myth, the pagan spirit of Christmas that compels us to drag pine trees into our homes, so they might smell of something indescribably necessary, and deliriously good.
Young Santa reminds me of those fractal animations that start out simple enough: it's just a leaf, right? But as the camera zooms in, the waxy green surface gives rise to a more complex pattern, and zooming in on that pattern gives rise to an even more unexpected, immense topography, so that zooming in begins to feel, paradoxically, like zooming out, until the reader is humming along like an engine, the microscopic and the immense like pistons, giving the repeated and delightful sensation of stepping into cupboards that open onto one Narnia after another, complete with snowy ranges, precipitous drops, and even unexpected, delightful characters on parallel quests, bushwhacking the scrub, out to catch gods of their own.
When I think of this book, I don't just think of a collection of poems, which can so often feel like a static composition. I see the epic narrative of a young wanderer alone in the mountains, the primordial monk before the myth, the pagan spirit of Christmas that compels us to drag pine trees into our homes, so they might smell of something indescribably necessary, and deliriously good.
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews