Prospero Burns His Books
Forgive and forget, says Prospero.
Forgiveness is for the weak
who are unable to forget.
They make a virtue of their weakness
and preserve their self–respect
with the broken pieces
of their integrity.
Like Humpty Dumpty,
after his Fall,
lying at the foot of Colchester wall.
With the broken pieces
of his identity.
poem by Brian Taylor
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You Worry? You?
You worry? You?
Nobody cares.
They may make sounds,
give you talk,
sympathy,
a few smiles
within bounds.
None care
beyond the question-answer-sympathy.
Take them while they're there;
there is no empathy.
Of course, others expect it too
- like you;
civilisation sits on that,
alluring but absurd - and much too fat.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Mara
A dry leaf scrapes across dry clay
giving Mara's game away.
The clock cuts into hours each day
to keep Eternity at bay.
Eternity outwaits the clock
and Mara's game is back on track.
The master-key clicks shut the lock
which stops the clock from turning back.
Leaf and clay must
meet in dust.
(And Mara's game is back on track.)
poem by Brian Taylor
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He that Hath Ears, Let Him Hear
The buzzing screen
In the brain
masks the ubiquitous
and transeternal pain.
Voices
drifting on the winds of space,
leaves from the Tree of Time;
telling the Seasons,
warning of disasters to come,
(or already here) ,
of evil lapping at the threshold,
of the omnipresent worm,
of the spider spinning his web
in the palaces of Kings.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Under The Dark Of The Vine Veranda
Coral dust blows
off the white beach
onto the slatted table.
Overhead, a trellis
of brown wood and green leaves
and, pushing through, dense clusters
of pink and white
Ladies’ Finger Nails,
sweet scented with a trace of lime.
An orchestra of cicadas,
the rustling of a million
tiny silver bells.
A fine sprinkling sound.
Like frost.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Watering Weeds
A column of cocoa
encased in a cup
waiting for someone
to sip it all up.
The cup we don't swallow
yet, were it not there,
to get at the cocoa
we'd be licking the chair.
Because of the spoon,
the soup travels through space
and finds its way safely
to a hole in our face.
MORAL: Just because
it looks non-essential,
that doesn't mean
it's a weed.
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Heart Of Darkness
The explorer draws his map
and plunges into space.
Why should he stumble on
at every fresh mishap
and draw back in blank surprise
as the landscape he has created
is revealed before his eyes?
Having nailed his mirror
in its place
firmly to the wall,
why the sudden tremor
at the sight of his own face?
Why the sudden terror
at the horror of it all?
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Season
The season slides
to wind and showers
and sharp hot sun
(for rare half-hours)
and all the world
lays waste its powers
pursuing what it cannot own.
Then mists and fogs and hazy sunrise
ships’ dull horns and lazy gull cries.
Now blazing heat
(bone dry pails)
sandy feet
single sails.
And thoughts slip in and out of being
just on the edge of almost-seeing.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Bethany
In the grey mist of an English dawn,
the starling stamps and prods and probes
and generally disturbs
the lawn,
seeking to confirm
an English proverb.
Beneath the green of an English lawn,
the patient worm
catches
the bird.
In this numbing
cosmic dance,
each one gives
and takes his chance
to feel and find
in flesh and mind
the ambiguous secrets of becoming.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Here
NOW
runs like a crack
through the universe.
Through it
beings escape.
Between each step
Between each movement
Between each breath
Between each heartbeat
Between each living cell
Between each thought
Between each impulse
light shines.
Through the crack
that runs through
the universe now.
No-one who grasps after
even a speck of dust
[...] Read more
poem by Brian Taylor
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