Body Snatchers
Under a bridge,
white van
blue overalls,
accident
black spot.
The spirits
of those who die violently
spiral around in turbulence,
causing more accidents.
The Buddhist Association,
funded by public donations,
collects the pieces
and pacifies the spirits
with chanting and cremations.
It is an unconnected fact
that, even if a body is not intact,
disconnected
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Purify the Mind
From Mt. Kailas,
birthplace of Shiva,
Lord of All,
the snow slides down the Himalayas
melting into pure water
and becomes Ganga
the holiest of rivers.
Absorbing the works of nature
and of man, it flows
past temples, villages,
rice fields, factories,
Calcutta slums,
and becomes,
at last, the sea
in the Bay of Bengal.
On its way
it purifies the faithful,
accepts the bodies of the dead
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Jupiter Spins
Jupiter spins, they say, three times as fast
as earth and thus enjoys a shorter day.
They say the sun will grow and then, at last,
burn up the planets which lie in its way.
They say, the universe is growing
or perhaps has grown
and having reached its fullness,
is on its way to ultimate collapse
into black holes of cosmic nothingness.
They say – and build new telescopes and peer
further and further into outer spaces
and dare not turn and look at what is here
brighter than the sun and clear before their faces.
And yet, when all is done,
not there one dies
but deep, inside, right here,
behind one’s eyes.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Black Magic
…a flowering of the human spirit
in which Evil torments and exploits
as much of Creation as it can reach.
…a development of Freedom To
in which Evil discards
the corner stone of Ethics
and expands
to as near Absolute Power
as it can reach.
…a flowering of Materialism,
in which Evil enclosures
its concentration camps,
its factory farms and farmers,
its vivisection laboratories and Ph.D.s.
…a convention of High Priests
and Thought Police,
Bishops and Ayatollahs;
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Why?
Because we have neglected much
we finish up with such and such,
surrounded by we see and touch.
Because we have neglected much.
Because we sit and dream (and dream)
we cannot separate is and seem;
images come in floods and teem.
Because we sit and dream (and dream) .
Because we lose ourselves in thought
(and all our errors are self-taught)
in Mara’s nets we are well-caught.
Because we lose ourselves in thought.
We have to buy back what we’ve sold.
We have to listen what we’ve told.
We have to trade our young for old,
(and watch our sun grow ever cold) .
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Diamond Mountain
Wind blows.
Rattled an invocation
two thousand years old
from bronze temple bells.
Brushes a susurrus
from ten thousand oak leaves.
Draws from their branches
the moaning
of two hundred year old wood,
the dry sound
of a long forgotten oboe.
Causes a seventy year old man
on a slatted bench
to tug a scarf across his chest.
Wind drops,
and slips back
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Chrysalis
Livingness, held in place,
projects the image of a face.
The face itself no more form has
than moon on water or shade on glass.
Yet fathers forth both tears and laughter,
a story of before and after,
which sports itself upon Life’s waters
until the blood–beat rhythm, strangely, falters.
Then, tears and laughter, livingness and face
stumble here and lose their place.
And all things human are here unmanned
at the granite doorway into no-man’s land.
Say, at this parting of the way
where all things hurt you,
what have you learned to pray
that will not desert you?
Here, where you find you are quite deaf and dumb,
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Quo Vadis?
Follow your nose
(Do you have any choice?)
See where it goes.
Listen to your voice.
Hear which way the wind is blowing.
Follow your feet.
In which direction are they going?
Whom do you meet?
What seeds do they say that you have been sowing?
The prisoner in the dock
is in a state of shock
though he swears he can't remember,
they say he did it all the same.
According to the records,
every footstep bears his name.
The courtroom's quite deserted,
no-one hears the things he says
and the Judge's head's a mirror
which reflects the games he plays.
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Silence
Opium heals,
applying a chemical bellows
to the Vital Heat;
a golden silence.
At what cost!
Matchstick limbs out of Auschwitz,
fever-bright eyes.
Such sweet poison!
Music heals,
early music;
Greek Olympian music.
Clusters of notes with open phrasing
dancing on the surface of the Void
and tumbling endlessly in,
leaving no trace.
The unmatchable healer
is Silence itself.
Into it everything
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Happiness
The great stone Hall is silent
that is now millennia old.
Through the western windows
shines a glorious sun.
It floods the walls and floors,
the tables, chairs and doors,
panelling, pictures, artefacts
and illumines every one
until the wraiths that gather
cry out in their joy,
'Everything is gold!
Whatever is, is gold! '
A majestic cloud
emerges from the southern sea,
slides across the western sky
blotting out the sun.
Light through those western windows
pales to a thin grey day.
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poem by Brian Taylor
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