Brian Taylor has been a Poet and Philosopher in Cornwall, England and the Far East.
Tag Archives: dust
NOWruns like a crackthrough the universe.Through itbeings escape. Between each stepBetween each movementBetween each breathBetween each heartbeatBetween each living cellBetween each thoughtBetween each impulselight shines.Through the crackthat runs throughthe universe now. No-one who grasps aftereven a speck of dustcan squeeze … Continue reading
An old machineresting theremade of bits and pieces;whatever happened to be spareof water, earth and fire and air. An old machineconnected to the mains,switched on, is conscious of its pains. Switched off, inert,it does not know its ending;lies in the … Continue reading
Poems are diamonds,everywhereembedded in living rock. You see themyou dig them outyou polish them. (Sometimes you don’t see them.) Polish them too much,they break into fragments,blow away,a handful of dust. (Each mote of which is a diamond.) .
Blue shorts, stained white shirt,street market playground of dust and dirt.Without the moral imperative of mustand the enforced need to understand,he dances in a circle,holding a yellowed bodhi leaf in each hand.With all the self-assurance of thirty inches high,he has … Continue reading
There’s a lot to be said for a balanced worldstable and well-fenced-in,that plays early that prays lateand industriously fills the within. This world’s a strange place to find one another with alien flesh labelled father and mother.Flesh is just dustin … Continue reading
Dry and ripening:sea flat and shininglike burning glass. Gulls floatinglike ducks on a giant’s pond. Small Coppers, Blues and Hairstreaksplayinglike blown leavesin parched grass. Victoria plums,blackberries. This is the turningof the yearwhen all that is thought of as ‘there’is found … Continue reading
Even in all your fine regalia,hint of blue and buzzing wingall the trappings of your kind,you are far from being a substantial thing,and all your efforts end in failure.All entomic paraphernalia,proboscis, thorax, abdomen, wings that fly,six legs, antennae, multi-faceted eye,are … Continue reading
In the dark tabernacle,a shaft of sunlightillumines the heartand shines througha million years of dust. Clouds and clouds of swirlingdustspirallingthrough the lightwhich spills in a golden poolon damp, grey stone and iron rust. When the light movesit does not take … Continue reading
“Died some pro patria non dulce non et decor.”So Ezra Pound adapted Horace’s linesfor those whose sufferings for their nationhad bred a dull, dark, painful generationwith gloria cauterised from their minds. In the calendar their deaths are still recorded.Poppies and … Continue reading
Mingled dust of privet and rose petalsswept by the windgathered into cracks and empty spacesalong the bottom of the wall. Mingled dust of hopes and memoriesswept by the mindgathered into cracks and empty spacesalong the bottom of us all. .