Brian Taylor has been a Poet and Philosopher in Cornwall, England and the Far East.
Tag Archives: dust
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
“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
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
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. .
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.) .
The Serpents dance hypnoticallyfilling the Void with Thought.And in their game of wish-fulfilmentthe Sons of Man are caught. Slaves to the Dream Creations,enflamed by its Hot Desires,craving ever-new sensations,singed by the Ancient Fires,they sinkfrom brightness into embersfrom cinders into dust,with … 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
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
The scent of the rosefades in the dry airand the roses themselvesshrivel and fall. The Rose Garden toosuccumbs to the developerand his high-rise flatswhich brush against the sky. Red bricks give wayto changing architectural fashionor a motorwayor a bomb. And … Continue reading