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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: smile
SPECULUM
Going out there is no other,coming back there is no trace.Though we must love one another,whose is the beloved’s face? Start from wherever you think you wish to,you cannot end up in a different place.Examine carefully the mirrors around you.All … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged beloved, blame, love, mirrors, no other, old face, polishing, smile, speculum, transformation
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ORPHEUS IN EXTREMIS
He turned his back on the graveyardand with the sad songshe had taken downinto the stiff clay of the underworldlike root-fingersstill singing in his ears,walked towards the future. Before him floatedher death mask,warmed by the pale fireof yesterday’s desire. Fire … Continue reading
Posted in Blondin
Tagged Blondin, Brian Taylor, death mask, desire, empty space, forgetfulness, fountain, future, girl, grave, nothingness, Orpheus, Proserpine, silence, smile, stream of being, sunlight, underworld
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KATHLEEN
‘Going out there is no other,coming back there is no trace’.Love and care for one another,smooth the sadness from her face. Like Orestes how she travels!Light-foot ever, onward roams;as the skein of life unravels,everywhere she makes her homes. Loves she … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged Eurydice, grass blade to her star, Kathleen, king of Shades, Life, love, Orestes, Orpheus, Oxford Blues, pain, Pluto, sadness, smile, sunshine, travel
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NEIGHBOURS IN DORNACH
Jane Horne’s daughter was deformed in hands and feet. Jane herself showed signs of being senile with her ever-hanging, half-dry smile. In 1727, there were no geriatric wards to treat her,so the neighbours were quite naturally concerned. They said she’d … Continue reading
Posted in Oxford Blues
Tagged burned, Devil, fire, geriatric, neighbours, senile, smile, tarred, witch
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ONE ARROW, TWO ARROWS
Why should the hand complainfor the glove abandoned in the rain? Why should the foot retainthe ragged shoe and call it pain? Why should the coloured window paneinflict on the white wall a lasting stain? Why should the nerve-ends’ loss … Continue reading
BLONDIN Poems 