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Brother Poem
A speculative-poetic work from the Forward Prize-winning, T.S. Eliot shortlisted author of RENDANG
At the heart of Brother Poem is a sequence addressed to a fictional brother. Through these fragments, Will Harris attempts to reckon with the past while mourning what never existed.
The text moves, cloud-like, through states of consciousness, beings and geographies, to create a moving portrait of contemporary anxieties around language and the need to communicate. With pronominal shifts, broken dialogisms, and obsessive feedback loops, it reflects on the fictions we tell ourselves, and in our attempts to live up to the demands of others.
From a dimension uncannily like our own, intuited through signs, whispers, and glitches, Brother Poem is shadowed by the loss of what can't be seen. Telling stories of bizarre familial reckonings and difficult relationships, about love and living with others, it is a deeply sensitive coming-of-age poetics.
At the heart of Brother Poem is a sequence addressed to a fictional brother. Through these fragments, Will Harris attempts to reckon with the past while mourning what never existed.
The text moves, cloud-like, through states of consciousness, beings and geographies, to create a moving portrait of contemporary anxieties around language and the need to communicate. With pronominal shifts, broken dialogisms, and obsessive feedback loops, it reflects on the fictions we tell ourselves, and in our attempts to live up to the demands of others.
From a dimension uncannily like our own, intuited through signs, whispers, and glitches, Brother Poem is shadowed by the loss of what can't be seen. Telling stories of bizarre familial reckonings and difficult relationships, about love and living with others, it is a deeply sensitive coming-of-age poetics.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
Published March 7, 2023
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50 people want to read
About the author
Will Harris
45 books14 followersPlease be aware that there are several authors listed under this name here, so the books shown below are written by different authors.
More authors of this name, identified by an addition in brackets, can be found here:
Will Harris (UK Poet)
Will Harris (Life Coach)
More authors of this name, identified by an addition in brackets, can be found here:
Will Harris (UK Poet)
Will Harris (Life Coach)
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
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August 22, 2023I don't know how many times i've read this now. ANOTHer revelation with this one
June 11, 2023
Every poem is another
poem that didn't make it
that in trying to write
the liquid crystal of my
eye shut out
behind whose silence
crackles the poem
I could be writing
which in writing takes
the place of you
so incredibly rich & much happening here in the best way. felt like a look in the mirror, swallowing a sharp bullet, & a hug simultaneously (also in the best way). some first ideas & thoughts.
interesting to interpret with psycho-analysis, especially in terms of Dreams, The Unconscious, collective trauma, and delineating parallels to psychoanalysis as an archeological process. relationship with 'reality' is sctu bc a) past is viscerally spat out in the mind while being gone and b) making sense of reality is approached from The Sleep Side - the reckoning process occurs through dreaming, dream-like when awake, realistic only in memories/ dream-like representations or hyperreal feeling dream-like again.
fight to express what can't be said with language only. surroundings, behaviour, physical pain, examples of other's reported pain used to reflect and narrate own pain in detached way or express its extent. the push & pull of fear/ avoidance of feeling pain/trauma/ feelings and trying to unearth the associated memories through seeking (geographical) triggers/ contemplation. especially the geographical tracing of trauma/ family history and revisiting of places and memories stored in place names to access memories is exceptional.
love the links created between green - anxiety (dreams) - smog (etc) and smog and anxiety sharing symptoms. the bizarreness & ever-shifting meaning of The Other preventing from pinning down one permanent interpretation - i.e., the continuous ambiguity of the brother's identity - amazingly mirrored & enhanced that very theme.
fascinated by the role of plants, sometimes as a bond between generations, poems, memories, sometimes expressing more than human language, sometimes allegory of (catastrophic consequences of) colonisation. so impressed by the capturing of the spiral/ oscillating movement of mourning & recovery, of generational trauma, of The Unreal , of the impossibility to wholly translate experience into language, of the (unconscious) mind.
poem that didn't make it
that in trying to write
the liquid crystal of my
eye shut out
behind whose silence
crackles the poem
I could be writing
which in writing takes
the place of you
so incredibly rich & much happening here in the best way. felt like a look in the mirror, swallowing a sharp bullet, & a hug simultaneously (also in the best way). some first ideas & thoughts.
interesting to interpret with psycho-analysis, especially in terms of Dreams, The Unconscious, collective trauma, and delineating parallels to psychoanalysis as an archeological process. relationship with 'reality' is sctu bc a) past is viscerally spat out in the mind while being gone and b) making sense of reality is approached from The Sleep Side - the reckoning process occurs through dreaming, dream-like when awake, realistic only in memories/ dream-like representations or hyperreal feeling dream-like again.
fight to express what can't be said with language only. surroundings, behaviour, physical pain, examples of other's reported pain used to reflect and narrate own pain in detached way or express its extent. the push & pull of fear/ avoidance of feeling pain/trauma/ feelings and trying to unearth the associated memories through seeking (geographical) triggers/ contemplation. especially the geographical tracing of trauma/ family history and revisiting of places and memories stored in place names to access memories is exceptional.
love the links created between green - anxiety (dreams) - smog (etc) and smog and anxiety sharing symptoms. the bizarreness & ever-shifting meaning of The Other preventing from pinning down one permanent interpretation - i.e., the continuous ambiguity of the brother's identity - amazingly mirrored & enhanced that very theme.
fascinated by the role of plants, sometimes as a bond between generations, poems, memories, sometimes expressing more than human language, sometimes allegory of (catastrophic consequences of) colonisation. so impressed by the capturing of the spiral/ oscillating movement of mourning & recovery, of generational trauma, of The Unreal , of the impossibility to wholly translate experience into language, of the (unconscious) mind.
January 23, 2025
I like poems
June 1, 2024
In June, outrageous stood the flagons
In June, outrageous stood the flagons on
the pavement which extended to the river
where we spoke of everything except
the fear that would, when habit ended, be
depended on. Our fear of darkness as
the fear of darkness never ending. To
hell with it, you said, and why not? Let’s buy
a dirty and slobbery farm in Albion. What
country is this? There was the big loom
we little mice were born to tarry in.
Its patter made the bad things better. O
we sang against the light as we sang
against the battens! Cold that June and mist-
shapen, the river mind and all else matter,
I called you. Where are you? It’s getting
dark. But these being statements, they ran
away before I could say hummock coastline theft.
This is where we used to speak of everything.
I need one more hour please. One more
hour. My affordable memories sold, I hung
my phone from the highest flagpole and kissed
the face of England once discreetly, though
it wasn’t you and neither was the mist
wherefrom in dingle darkness buzzed a single
notification. Call me when you get this.
And see I’m calling now, whether or not
this is now or in time. (1)
from Cuttlefish
You knew I had a brother though we'd only met
that night. Each time you forget and remember
the experience becomes truer. Like lighting
in reverse the fuse blew. (2)
from Voice Notes
Even if it could be named it would only be
as some token, some part-for-whole, of what
could be expressed [...]
I went to see Joe for a drink in town, in
my hands the actual token that comes from
the same root as to teach, which phases
in and out of being, existing inasmuch as
you want it. Parts of speech express our
parting. The wounded fall in the direction
of the wound. (19)
Weather and Address
If I can’t reach you, let me fold these words into a better
concept of direction. I want to reclaim the horror of pure speech.
Walking down West Green Road to Seven Sisters, toggling
between street view and the view itself, snow makes everything
familiar, the sky falling upwards as you wheel your bike. Even the
familiar roads are treacherous. Last summer Hugh and I made an
autonomous zone on the pavement outside his flat with
an old sofa and a broken chest of drawers. He put his pot plants
on the wall, free to take, and that was it, a mode of address
emerging like the weather, not directed at but around us. Any
direction you took was walking away. The cost of walking away
was felt as a gag reflex, no spasm able to dislodge words once
spoken. So don’t fucking say it. The harm perpetrated on speech
by the agents of media was clear. When we sat on that sofa
it was Parliament Square or Capitol Hill. Any place where enough
people have congregated and cried for no reason, the spirit
passing through them. The weather only appears to come from
above. When I write his name and delete it – when I write your
name and delete it – I understand the evil of speech for its
own sake. I don’t address him. My eyes are dry as I imagine a
crow pecking at his corpse, the cops out in force smiling at
the dog owners. The important thing is that redemption can exist
alongside hate. We hear the wind change, stating its true direction.
I keep switching tabs, toggling views, not looking at you but
at the screen where our eyes meet, or later at the twitch in your face
mask as we talk. We’ve lived together long enough, in shared
isolation, in mutual address, speech more real for being mediated.
We know what mass is. A mode of talking through, of lightness
over meals. As weather makes contact with the ground, snow grains
spilling through our hands assuming resistance, we hear
ourselves as we exist, without any principle but that which reaches
beyond speech, because the sky surrounds us falling upwards. (33)
In June, outrageous stood the flagons on
the pavement which extended to the river
where we spoke of everything except
the fear that would, when habit ended, be
depended on. Our fear of darkness as
the fear of darkness never ending. To
hell with it, you said, and why not? Let’s buy
a dirty and slobbery farm in Albion. What
country is this? There was the big loom
we little mice were born to tarry in.
Its patter made the bad things better. O
we sang against the light as we sang
against the battens! Cold that June and mist-
shapen, the river mind and all else matter,
I called you. Where are you? It’s getting
dark. But these being statements, they ran
away before I could say hummock coastline theft.
This is where we used to speak of everything.
I need one more hour please. One more
hour. My affordable memories sold, I hung
my phone from the highest flagpole and kissed
the face of England once discreetly, though
it wasn’t you and neither was the mist
wherefrom in dingle darkness buzzed a single
notification. Call me when you get this.
And see I’m calling now, whether or not
this is now or in time. (1)
from Cuttlefish
You knew I had a brother though we'd only met
that night. Each time you forget and remember
the experience becomes truer. Like lighting
in reverse the fuse blew. (2)
from Voice Notes
Even if it could be named it would only be
as some token, some part-for-whole, of what
could be expressed [...]
I went to see Joe for a drink in town, in
my hands the actual token that comes from
the same root as to teach, which phases
in and out of being, existing inasmuch as
you want it. Parts of speech express our
parting. The wounded fall in the direction
of the wound. (19)
Weather and Address
If I can’t reach you, let me fold these words into a better
concept of direction. I want to reclaim the horror of pure speech.
Walking down West Green Road to Seven Sisters, toggling
between street view and the view itself, snow makes everything
familiar, the sky falling upwards as you wheel your bike. Even the
familiar roads are treacherous. Last summer Hugh and I made an
autonomous zone on the pavement outside his flat with
an old sofa and a broken chest of drawers. He put his pot plants
on the wall, free to take, and that was it, a mode of address
emerging like the weather, not directed at but around us. Any
direction you took was walking away. The cost of walking away
was felt as a gag reflex, no spasm able to dislodge words once
spoken. So don’t fucking say it. The harm perpetrated on speech
by the agents of media was clear. When we sat on that sofa
it was Parliament Square or Capitol Hill. Any place where enough
people have congregated and cried for no reason, the spirit
passing through them. The weather only appears to come from
above. When I write his name and delete it – when I write your
name and delete it – I understand the evil of speech for its
own sake. I don’t address him. My eyes are dry as I imagine a
crow pecking at his corpse, the cops out in force smiling at
the dog owners. The important thing is that redemption can exist
alongside hate. We hear the wind change, stating its true direction.
I keep switching tabs, toggling views, not looking at you but
at the screen where our eyes meet, or later at the twitch in your face
mask as we talk. We’ve lived together long enough, in shared
isolation, in mutual address, speech more real for being mediated.
We know what mass is. A mode of talking through, of lightness
over meals. As weather makes contact with the ground, snow grains
spilling through our hands assuming resistance, we hear
ourselves as we exist, without any principle but that which reaches
beyond speech, because the sky surrounds us falling upwards. (33)
January 13, 2025
“We were / events in language.” Following his exceptional Rendang, which launched Granta Poetry back in 2020, Will Harris returns with his latest poetry collection, Brother Poem, an even more striking, exciting book than the last one. The running conceit of the collection is that the poems are addressed to / feature the spectral presence of a brother that Harris never had, as self-described “memory exercises”. Concerned with gaps in language and identity, and general anxieties around these concepts and life itself, Harris offers a series of sharp, shorter poems, leading up to the central, titular long poem of the book, which plumbs the “I-not-I”, the notion of his “Brother as a section of the waiting art”, the idea of “pure memory” and “words in place of / speech”. The free-form poem, which also incorporates a series of photographs, posits a “Brother / more a question / than a name”, and reflexively contemplates the act of writing itself as “Every poem is another / poem that didn’t make it”. With poems like ‘In Anxiety Dreams’, or ‘New Year’, or the brilliant opening poem (where “we spoke of everything except / the fear that would, when habit ended, be / depended on.“), Harris presents modern life fraught with anxiety and loneliness in the absence of fraternity, and experience so often mediated, mostly through the phone screens that recur in these poems. I especially enjoyed the insistence that “I want to reclaim the horror of pure speech”, and one of the final declarations of the book: “I was trying to explain why / writing is pointless, but you were there.” This new collection by one of the UK’s greatest poets is out on 2 March.
January 1, 2025
3.8, really enjoyed reading this. You really need to chew on some of these—it’s deceptively approachable. Found many of my favourites to work on multiple levels. Love the concept of writing a series to a fictional brother.
Favourites/standouts: Untitled (opener), p.13, Voice Notes, South London Mum, Weather and Address, p.63 (!!!!), p.74
I don’t want to / move or speak just / to impede the flow / of light through / your cornea / slightly
As it’s Jan 1 I can confidently say this is my favourite collection of the year.
Favourites/standouts: Untitled (opener), p.13, Voice Notes, South London Mum, Weather and Address, p.63 (!!!!), p.74
I don’t want to / move or speak just / to impede the flow / of light through / your cornea / slightly
As it’s Jan 1 I can confidently say this is my favourite collection of the year.
April 3, 2024
I rarely read a poetry collection from front to back, least of all have the intention to do so. But 'Brother Poem' caught my attention in ways I didn't expect. There's something familiar about it. It's as though Harris understands my feelings, my disconnection, my being on the edge of something but not quite able to grasp it.
May 28, 2023
One of those pieces of art that's truly pleasurable regardless of how much you 'get' it. For reasons that I would struggle to explain, I feel like it helped me to fall in love with words again, and to want to write. Most enjoyment I've got from a collection in quite a while.
September 14, 2023
There is something a bit dreamily hypnotic about Will’s writing, but also in a way that escapes me - half the time I feel he’s too intellectual for me and I don’t understand what he’s talking about, but then out of the blue come lines that really resonate.
September 14, 2024
3.5 stars
i can’t tell if i’m struggling with british english or if the style is too sophisticated for me, but it’s clear that this is a coming of age written in a distinct, dreamy, yet abstract way, constantly referring back to what was said earlier on often in reverse
i can’t tell if i’m struggling with british english or if the style is too sophisticated for me, but it’s clear that this is a coming of age written in a distinct, dreamy, yet abstract way, constantly referring back to what was said earlier on often in reverse
December 4, 2023
3.5 stars
July 6, 2024
hurts and heals
February 13, 2025
Oh brother!
July 28, 2024
Daring, visionary, sharp, there's no other voice like Will Harris's
Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews