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Brian Taylor has been a Poet and Philosopher in Cornwall, England and the Far East.
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Tag Archives: dead
CALCULATIONS
Space you measure in feet and inchesand shoes by where your big toe pinches;seasons by cherry, rose and snow,when may comes and swallows go:empires by rise and fall of kings;weather by rain and drought and flood;dead trees by whether the … Continue reading
MATTER IS DEAD
Matter is dead,dead or dying.And in it, cravingcraves its dissolution,rehearses dissolution.Expense of energyin voluntary death. Do not keep it youngor leave a creaky scream unwrung,a forbidden song unsung,a sin unsunned. A pleasure’s but a pleasure,and on pleasure’s wingsa man gets … Continue reading
AFTERNOON TEA AT THE WARNEFORD
Speechreaches outto whisper and shout,praise and curse,across a silent universe;making of molecular vibrationa means of human communication. It wasn’t always quite like this;the groansand moans,the hissand howlsin the warm pre-Cambrian mudwere eloquent enough avowalsof love and hatred, fear and blood. … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged animal, bird, communication, cosmic suffering, dead, farmyard, here, living, mind, Oxford, pre-Cambrian, sensation, silent universe, speech, student halls, Warneford
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REQUIEM: ARMISTICE DAY
This yearthe dead are blindand do not seem to hearour prayers.Nor do they seem to mindthat we now ownwhat they once thought was theirs. Herethey shed no tearat all the painthey left behind. Now,when they come again,they only findechoes of … Continue reading
PYRAMIDS AND SARCOPHAGI
Why did they spend so much time therein the anteroom of death?What could they prepare?Paper possessions as light as breathwere too heavy for their dead to bearaway from the fire.Why did they keep their eyeson pyramid, tomb and funeral pyre?Even … Continue reading
Posted in Blondin
Tagged breath, Brian Taylor, dead, death, dreams, eternity, funeral pyre, identity, light, mind, pyramids, sarcophagi, tomb
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REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY
November RosePink and white and mauve.Solitary, still,among the rosemary and late autumnal gorse. Sea winds have blown.The first frosts have frozen the short grass.Spring and summer are memories,midwinter an echo in reverse. November Rose for the dying.November Poppies for the … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged autumnal gorse, dead, first frosts, Flanders, midwinter, new birth, November Poppies, November Rose, Remembrance Sunday, Rosemary
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GUESTS
Who are the deadI have not reached(or been unable to find)who wait with such patiencein quiet corners of my mind? Seek with the mindyou get thoughts.Seek with the heartyou get understanding.Speak with thoughtsyou reach a man’s mind.Speak with understandingyou reach … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged dead, guests, heart, mind, patience, quiet corners, seek, thoughts, understanding
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NATURE’S LAW
IF,while you are alive,You honestly (and steadfastly)add two and two togetherand get five. THEN,finally (and lastly)when you are safely deadyou will find that all those extra oneswill surely stand you in good stead. Ask Darwin. .
BLONDIN Poems 