The Flood

Mervyn Peake

the flood

read this and other poems in Taylor's upcoming book of poetry, Bombshell Bohemia: poems from the underground.

I Remember You As You Were

Alfred Eisenstaedt

I Remember You As You Were

by Pablo Neruda

I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
towards which my deep longings migrated
and my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills.
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

[copyright w.s. merwin, 1969]

In Her Nature

"Taylor, you are like nature,
and when in your nature,
that's when you shine."

-B.C.

"Taylor Reading" pastel by Ron Leach

A Thirsty Fish

Alfred Eisenstaedt

A Thirsty Fish
from The Essential Rumi translation by Coleman Barks


I don’t get tired of you. Don’t grow weary
of being compassionate toward me!

All this thirst equipment
must surely be tired of me,
the waterjar, the water carrier.

I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it’s thirsty for!

Show me the way to the ocean!
Break these half-measures,
these small containers.

All this fantasy
and grief.

Let my house be drowned in the wave
that rose last night out of the courtyard
hidden in the center of my chest.

Joseph fell like a moon into my well.
The harvest I expected was washed away.
But no matter.

A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don’t want learning, or dignity,
or respectability.

I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.

The grief armies assemble,
but I’m not going with them.

This is always how it is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence overcomes me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.


[copyright HarperOne, 1997]