Born and raised in Utah, Darlene Young currently lives in South Jordan with her husband and sons. She received her BA from Brigham Young University (1994) and, after raising her family, returned there for her MFA (2014). She teaches Creative Writing and Literature of the LDS People at Brigham Young University and Brigham Young University-Salt Lake.
Young writes poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. Her essay “Notes on the Back of the Recipe,” which appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Other essays have appeared in various journals. Her poetry collection, Homespun and Angel Feathers, was published by BCC Press in 2019. Her poetry has been anthologized in Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets (Peculiar Pages, 2011), Moth and Rust (Signature, 2017), The Best of Mormonism (Curelom Books, 2009), The Mother in Me (Deseret Book, 2008) and other collections. Her YA novel, Inside Out, won second place in the Utah Arts Council contest, 2009.
Works
There Are Two Types of People in the World
There Are Two Types of People in the World
I wish
I spoke moon.
--Bob Hicok
There are two types of people in the world:
those who can do the moonwalk and those who speak moon.
Fans of the Bee Gees and earners of BA's.
People who look out windows and people who look in.
Nail-chewers and whale-watchers.
Paper or plastic?
There are people who plant gardens
and people who have lain in dirt and sucked
the stems of grass.
People who count the cost and people who see angels.
Some people snore, while others snort, snarl, drool, and slurr,
as appropriate and on demand.
The dainty and the stingy.
Chopsticks and stickshifts.
There are people who save the plums in the icebox
and those who run naked with sticky fingers, bees in their hair.
People who can spell hors d'oerves and people
who are too good for that.
Those who interrupt others, and those who
weren't even there.
Whistlers and whiners.
Liars and sighers.
There are two types of people:
those who wish to be cremated and scattered,
and those already flying in their dreams.
Those who can sing all of "Hey Jude," and those
who've memorized the Table of Elements.
Down-doggers and helium suckers.
Hand washers and wand wielders.
There are people who've licked flagpoles and people who've licked
the curled flowerbud palms of newborns.
Lovers and wincers.
Sinners
and gone.
Published in Poetry East, December 2019
The Middle School Band Concert
The Middle School Band Concert
An assemblage of characters, caught
at the age of caricature: trace
in their faces at once the chubby
children they were, the future
underslept bill-payers and clockwatchers.
Acne, orthodontia, the blousy orchid
of amateur eyeliner, the gelled hair of hope.
The boy with the huge nose
whose pants are too short
has the solo; we all cheer for him,
his grandparents the loudest.
Some parents
take turns in the aisles with cameras;
others stay in their seats
and text. Little siblings slide down laps,
creep along aisles.
The slouching girl at the vibraphone,
wearing a suitcoat and tie, and the girl
with the impossible posture at the piano.
All the faces—
think "petals on a wet, black bough"—
too tender for this world.
Can you see the future dot-com bigshot
in the gangly boy with the cymbals,
all Adam's apple and shag?
The lone female sax player
will become a housewife
and surprise herself by loving it.
One trombonist wears a fedora, cocked
over an eye, and the beautiful, sad
girl with the French horn
has left her body.
Heads bob to the count.
A group of athletes in the audience
yell the name of one of their own,
who ducks and blushes.
The sweat-stained, overworked conductor
in a shabby tie, everyone's favorite teacher
with his puns, knock-knock jokes
and nicknames, has forgotten, for the moment
the precarious potato peel trudge
of diminishing budgets and teenage
souls seeking redemption in the joy
of the music. Radiant,
he gets the longest ovation
from his students, at the end,
six of whom—
the ones whose parents didn't come—
walk him to his junky car
after helping him
turn out the lights.
Published in Poetry East, December 2019.
'Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace'
"Lord, Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace"
OK, let's get this straight. When I said it,
I meant tool. Tackle, widget, implement, device.
Something cool and sharp with important work to do:
a screwdriver, maybe. Scalpel or forceps.
Ophthalmoscope. I would have settled for tweezers,
chopstick—heck, even a toothpick has its dignity and place
(raspberry seed, lunch with the boss).
Or if we're thinking music, how about a harp
or piano: I could pluck and finger thy word
for the world. But I'm clumsy; I get that. Then
why not go large with chimes or a kettle drum?
Or sassy trumpet, blazing with thy breath?
Sure, I'm not gong-strong, nor flute pure, but maybe
I could be bagpipes—or viola, the plain older sister?
Moving into middle age, I begin to see the joke
and joy of what you've made of my life: yes,
your breath has been in me, and on days
I manage to flatten myself thin enough,
translucent as waxed paper, I vibrate,
resonant in your wind. You humming through me:
curious timbre. Ticklish, tangy, and strange;
good enough. I'll be your holy kazoo. Selah.
Published in Homespun and Angel Feathers, BCC Press, 2019.
Salt
Salt
Grandpa weeps and your hand
on my back is like shade I think
while rubbing his feet of the tuck
and purl of yourlegsandmine
when we finally climb into bed
after the mountain of today
after all the mountains of all our days
you are my yellow bicycle you
are my dusk the oh of the space of your name
in my mouth the child with a jar
full of grass we
will get old we will pleach
melting into each other like limp
lettuce losing its borders
you
are the salt to me you
are the tinge and the glint and
I'll always turn my head to catch you I see
your handwriting
on the backs of my eyelids your voice
is my blanket the kitten in the shrubs when the gutter
swells with cigarette butts
in the ebbing of the tide we cling
to the pilings cobwebs and morning glory
afterimage
if you exit before me
I'll dwindle like Grandpa
a ring around the bathtub a book-
mark on the floor
Published in Wisconsin Review, Spring 2018 and in Homespun and Angel Feathers, BCC Press, 2019.
Bibliography
Homespun and Angel Feathers, BCC Press, 2019.
