Scott Taylor, Author at Scott Taylor

Poetry January 9, 2024

Five Poems

Solstice

The darkness comes
as early as it will.
All the voices stop
as the children begin
twirling slowly
on the playground
of the church,
arms outstretched,
mittens dangling,
gazing upwards
into the remarkable sky.
Never-ending snowflakes
are falling everywhere
out of the darkness
onto their faces, into
their open mouths,
no longer cold
or hungry or scared
or bored by the world.

Mixtape

Back in the day
a well-crafted mixtape
could break even the most
immaculate think tanks
down
into pieces
of pure sex.

The End

What does one actually do
at the end of the world?

You might try
to ascertain
if it’s the end
of the entire universe
or simply the end of you—
not that you could tell.

You could of course
just run your whol
sorry self
right up into it,

but instead,
for once in your life,
you actually wait for it
and take in the view.

Your sun is setting,
and the Great Noting
you see before you
is so beautiful, so magnificent,
that your breath is taken away
one last time,
and then you
are no longer you,
if ever
you were

Sherlock Holmes

famously banished
the impossible
from his solutions
but always let it linger
just outside the frame
like an actor
waiting in the wings—
never going on
but compelling all levels
of the probable
to look it in the eye
before taking the stage.

Deus Ex Machina

Sometimes,
it takes a machine
to lower Love down
to the stage—
especially
if it’s dressed in
an unlikely costume.

Poetry August 24, 2022

Five Rilke Translations

Before the Summer Rain

All at once, from all the green in the park,
some something, you can’t say what, is missing;
you feel it coming close to the windows
and staying still. From the forest, there’s only

the strong, imploring call of the plover—
one thinks of a Saint Jerome—
so much lonliness and zeal rising up
out of that one voice, that a downpour

must answer. The walls of the hall have,
with their pictures, withdrawn from us,
as if forbidden to hear what we say.

It reflects in the faded wallpapers,
that unsettled afternoon light
you feared as a child.

Vor dem Sommerregen

Auf einmal ist aus allem Grün im Park
man weiß nicht was, ein Etwas fortgenommen;
man fühlt ihn näher an die Fenster kommen
und schweigsam sein. Inständig nur und stark

ertönt aus dem Gehölz der Regenpfeifer,
man denkt an einen Hieronymus:
so sehr steigt irgend Einsamkeit und Eifer
aus dieser einen Stimme, die der Guß

erhören wird. Des Saales Wände sind
mit ihren Bildern von uns fortgetreten,
als dürften sie nicht hören was wir sagen.

Es spiegeln die verblichenen Tapeten
das ungewisse Licht von Nachmittagen,
in denen man sich fürchtete als Kind.

The Swan

This toiling through all that remains undone,
heavy, moving as if bound,
is like the awkward gait of a swan.

And dying, this letting go
of the ground we stand on every day,
is like his anxious settling down

into the water, which receives him,
passes happily beneath him,
pulls him back, wave by wave,
while he, infinitely calm and secure,
ever more regal, mature, and serene,
lets himself be drawn away.

Der Schwann

Diese Mühsal, durch noch Ungetanes
schwer und wie gebunden hinzugehn,
gleicht dem ungeschaffnen Gang des Schwanes.

Und das Sterben, dieses Nichtmehrfassen
jenes Grunds, auf dem wir täglich stehn,
seinem ängstlichen Sich-Niederlassen:

in die Wasser, die ihn sanft empfangen
und die sich, wie glücklich und vergangen,
unter ihm zurückziehen, Flut um Flut;
während er unendlich still und sicher
immer mündiger und königlicher
und gelassener zu ziehn geruht.

Black Cat

A ghost is still like a place
your glance can strike with a sound;
but here, on this black fur, even
your strongest gaze will be dissolved:

like a madman who, in his fullest
frenzy, stomps into the darkness
till stopped by the padded walls
of his cell and evaporates.

Every gaze that’s ever fallen on her
she seems to conceal within herself,
so she can menace them and sullenly
look them over and sleep with them.
But all at once, she’s awake
and turns to face you: and there
you meet your own gaze,
trapped in the amber stone
of her round eyes,
like an extinct insect.

Schwarze Katze

Ein Gespenst ist noch wie eine Stelle,
dran dein Blick mit einem Klange stößt;
aber da, an diesem schwarzen Felle
wird dein stärkstes Schauen aufgelöst:

wie ein Tobender, wenn er in vollster
Raserei ins Schwarze stampft,
jählings am benehmenden Gepolster
einer Zelle aufhört und verdampft.

Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen,
scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen,
um darüber drohend und verdrossen
zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen.
Doch auf einmal kehrt sie, wie geweckt,
ihr Gesicht und mitten in das deine:
und da triffst du deinen Blick im geelen
Amber ihrer runden Augensteine
unerwartet wieder: eingeschlossen
wie ein ausgestorbenes Insekt.

The Blind

Paris

Behold, he goes and interrupts the city—
which lies outside his darkened place—
like a dark crack running through
a bright cup. And like a blank page,

which reflects every painted thing,
he doesn’t take any of it in.
Only his feelings stir, as if catching
the world in small waves:

a silence, a resistance —
he seems to be waiting on whom to choose:
then, giving himself over, he puts
his hand up festively, as if to marry.

Der Blinde

Paris

Sieh, er geht und unterbricht die Stadt,
die nicht ist auf seiner dunkeln Stelle,
wie ein dunkler Sprung durch eine helle
Tasse geht. Und wie auf einem Blatt

ist auf ihm der Widerschein der Dinge
aufgemalt; er nimmt ihn nicht hinein.
Nur sein Fühlen rührt sich, so als finge
es die Welt in kleinen Wellen ein:

eine Stille, einen Widerstand —,
und dann scheint er wartend wen zu wählen:
hingegeben hebt er seine Hand,
festlich fast, wie um sich zu vermählen.

A Withering

Lightly, as if after her death,
she wears the gloves, the shawl.
A scent from her dresser
has displaced the familiar smell

she once knew herself by. Now
it’s been a long time since she’s asked
who she was (: a distant relation).
She wanders in thoughts,

caring for an anxious room
that she arranges and preserves,
because the same girl
may be living there still.

Eine Welke

Leicht, wie nach ihrem Tode,
trägt sie die Handschuh, das Tuch.
Ein Duft aus ihrer Kommode
verdrängte den lieben Geruch,

an dem sie sich früher erkannte.
Jetzt fragte sie lange nicht, wer
sie sei (: eine ferne Verwandte),
und geht in Gedanken umher

und sorgt für ein ängstliches Zimmer,
das sie ordnet und schont,
weil es vielleicht noch immer
dasselbe Mädchen bewohnt.

Translated by Scott Taylor

The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters: No Way Out but Through, episode 5

Oh People! The fifth podcast of No Way Out but Through is live!

The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters

—Francisco Goya

Thanks
Gratefulness puts the pedal to the metal and crashes into the void in W.S. Merwin‘s poem Thanks.
Once
Once I was in love with my future. It was lit like a Japanese city. My life was charmed. I got into fistfights. I turned on a dime. I was fiercely optimistic. I was the luckiest man alive.
Self Portrait
It doesn’t interest David Whyte if there is one god or many gods,
he wants to know if you belong — or feel abandoned.
The Sleep of Reason
We collaborated across oceans and created The Sleep of Reason. If, in 2020, you couldn’t see the point of getting up because you had nothing to look forward to—this one goes out to you.
Featuring Maren Euwer, Glen Stohr, Richard La Rosa, and Curt Hopkins.
Hellenism
We live in is a field filled with sunlight
The exact moment when the echo of a city
Collapsing dies away
As Curt Hopkins reads his poem Hellenism, you will find yourself flying over the fence and into the void where you will land on the hood of W.S. Merwin’s oldsmobile. Splash!
After Long Winter
Chiyo (1703-1775) was a Japanese poet of the Edo period, a Buddhist nun, and widely regarded as one of the greatest poets of haiku (then called hokku). After Long Winter is one of the best haiku ever written ( I will fight you about that and you will lose).
Featuring Susan Anderson, Glen Stohr, Curt Hopkins, Richard La Rosa, and Maren Euwer.
Kindness
Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
Naomi Shihab Nye is a poet, songwriter, and novelist. Krista Tippet’s interview on her On Being podcast is excellent.

As 2020 rolled by, and I tried to get my head around the whole thing, trying to address it somehow in terms of my podcast, the idea of working with collaborators was finally what inspired me to get some work done again

Thanks so much to said collaborators:
Maren Euwer
Glen Stohr
Richard La Rosa
Curt Hopkins, The Dog Watches
Susan Kay Anderson, Mezzanine

1.
Thanks

W.S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

2.
Once

Scott Taylor

Once, I was in love with my future.
It was lit like a Japanese city.
My life was charmed.
I got into fistfights.
I turned on a dime.
I was fiercely optimistic.
I was the luckiest man alive.

Once, I was shot out of a canon,
I landed on the moon,
I killed seven with one blow,
I balanced ten torpedoes
on the tip of my tongue like a sailor.

The future was up for grabs,
The past was simply a benign ghost
living in the back of my head.

Then one night,
the gods had had enough
and manufactured a monster
to distress my every dream.

Soon the days muddled into months.
Was I half asleep or half-awake?
No sound was distinct.
All the colors on the wheel
ran together into a bleak, unlovely gray.

Now, a complete disappointment,
I let down my guard
and gave up the ghost.
I was surprised to find myself
eager for doom.
The Future reared up for a final foray,
but changed its mind.
It came inside, and stayed inside.

Once, I felt certain the Future
would make the Past pay
It would shove its face into the mud
until it whimpered, and slinked off
into the dark woods forever.

Once, I saw the moon disappear
like it had been deleted.
Once, as per your request,
I dreamed a little dream of you.

3.
Self Portrait

David Whyte

It doesn’t interest me if there is one God
Or many gods.
I want to know if you belong — or feel abandoned;
If you know despair
Or can see it in others.
I want to know
If you are prepared to live in the world
With its harsh need to change you;
If you can look back with firm eyes
Saying “this is where I stand.”
I want to know if you know how to melt
Into that fierce heat of living
Falling toward the center of your longing.
I want to know if you are willing
To live day by day
With the consequence of love
And the bitter unwanted passion
Of your sure defeat.
I have been told
In that fierce embrace
Even the gods
Speak of God.

4.
The Sleep of Reason

Featuring Maren Euwer, Glen Stohr, Richard La Rosa, and Curt Hopkins.

The sleep of reason produces monsters.
Francisco Goya

Sanity is not statistical.
George Orwell, 1984

Weariness is a kind of madness.
Albert Camus, The Plague

One moment of incompetence can be fatal.
Frank Herbert, Dune Messiah

I couldn’t see the point of getting up.
I had nothing to look forward to.
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Pragmatism?! – is that all you have to offer?
Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

The old world is dying
and the new world struggles to be born.
Now is the time of monsters.
Antonio Gramsci

5.
Hellenism

Curt Hopkins, The Dog Watches

History’s ended. The time—
if it is still time—
We live in is a field filled with sunlight
The exact moment when the echo of a city
Collapsing dies away, but before the birds
And insects can resume and sirens sound
And people shout and cry. But this field will last
Forever, exactly as it is. The sounds
Will not resume. And we will have breakfast outside,
Underneath the plane tree, facing the ruins.

6.
After Long Winter

Chiyo, translated by David Ray

Featuring Susan Anderson, Glen Stohr, Curt Hopkins, Richard La Rosa, and Maren Euwer

After long winter, giving
each other nothing, we collide
with blossoms in our hands.

7.
Kindness

Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Stories February 23, 2021

Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 4

Testing my Hypothesis that my Roommate has been Reading my Diary

Today’s entry:
Have started poisoning F.
Will now watch for signs.

For his own Good

“Yes,” he admitted to me, “it’s bad, inexcusably bad, that it had gotten to the point where saving the relationship all came down to the creation, delivery, and appreciation of a carefully crafted mix-tape—the best mix-tape ever on the topic of unrequited love, if you ask me.”

“What happened?”

“It was stolen out of my car. They didn’t touch anything else. I don’t get it.”

“The Universe is an indifferent construct,” I told him, knowing that, at some point, the investigation would lead them to me.

On the Writer’s Shelf

His books, all of which were published some thirty to forty years ago, a copy of The Seagull, and a gun.

Mr. Death

He appeared at the kitchen window, like in a fifties sitcom, and chatted her up in a neighborly way.

After the Fight

I was staring straight up through the tree skeletons at the snow floating down. I was very cold. I was lying on my back on a bit of black ice on a walkway through the commons. I could not remember how I got there.

My girlfriend stomped over and pushed on my arm with the heel of her boot like she was testing the liveliness of a roadkill.

“Hey,” I said.

“Well, I guess you’re not dead,” she said, and stomped off again toward the tram.

Guinness Book Attempt

I needed to stay up for 12 nights. My buddies were helping me. Restaurants brought food, thinking I was a boy scout. The third day I began muttering and talking to myself. On the fourth day, I began yelling at people. They took me off the radio and they took me off TV. On the fifth day: my friends spiked my coffee with sleeping pills they had ground up with two spoons.

Bounty

It had been a long day. He worked late for the third time this week, but everything seemed to be finally going well. He had really turned the corner on everything. New city. New job. Sure, divorce was on the horizon, but even that seemed like a relief now and not a tremendous insult.

He got out of the car, and walked into a convenience store by his apartment. He grabbed a loaf of bread, some eggs, and a single pilsner. As he waited in line, he looked up and saw a poster with his picture on it and the word “Bounty” above his head.

“What the hell?”

“Is this some kind of joke,” he said to the clerk.

She shrugged.

He took the poster down to have a better look at it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clerk turn away from him as she punched in some numbers and began whispering into the phone.

The Tale of the Twins

Once upon a time there were twins, alike in every way except that one could only open doors and the other could only close them.

One day, the one who could only open doors died, and well, you know the rest.

Contrary to What You’ve Heard about Screaming

“Jay is a project manager from Athens we abducted three days ago. If you want to learn more about him, login, and use your subscriber code to access his entire Facebook site, as well as his WhatsApp and Telegram accounts—including all the messages he’s deleted in the last year!

“I’ve just received word that Jay has been put into the Extravehicular Mobility Suit. In a couple minutes, we’ll wake him up with a shot of adrenaline, and then eject him from the space station. He’ll have thirty minutes to get his bearings, figure out the suit, and then maneuver his way back to the docking doors before his oxygen runs out, while you, our special subscribers, get to watch and listen.

“Okay, I’ve gotten the thumbs up. Here we go! Contestant number 59640, it’s time to wake up! I’m sure you’ve got questions.“

Portent

Nothing bad ever happens at the Scissors Museum, he said, twisting his mustachio.

Wait, there’s more:
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 1
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 2
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 3

Poetry October 21, 2020

October: 31 Photos. 31 Poems.

Oh People, my book is live!

Find it at Amazon.com.
Also available at
Amazon.de, Amazon.it, Amazon.fr

Amazon Description
In 2005, Scott Taylor found a metal box filled with photographs in the boiler room of the house he and his family had just moved into. Some were color photographs from the 70s, others were much, much older. There was no way to tell how they ended up there, or who collected them in the first place. Ten years later, he picked out 31 of them, and wrote a poem every day that October.

1

Fall is the poison
the world takes for sleeping,
its decorations
dropping off trees
to the mud.

Red smashes into orange
and then into yellow,
thus making a clownsuit
for the world to wear.

Meanwhile,
the cops are arresting
some kids in the graveyard
who were just talking.

Find my podcast No Way Out but Through
on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or at scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com
and my video here at Utmost Video

Podcast Transcripts May 5, 2020

Separation Energy: No Way Out but Through, episode 4

Oh People,
the fourth episode of No Way Out but Through is live.

Stories, poems, and monologues with music for that special sheltering-at-home time of your life.

1. Messages (Taylor): A woman sends messengers into the afterworld

2. Sweet Darkness (David Whyte): Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes
to recognize its own. There you can be sure you are not beyond love.

3. Cosmodemonic (Taylor): If you want to speak to a human being who will sympathize and empathize, someone who will actually listen to you and help you to solve your problems, please press 9 now

4. I am Waiting (Lawrence Ferlinghetti): I am waiting for the American Eagle to really spread its wings and straighten up and fly right. . . and I am waiting for a reconstructed Mayflower to reach America with its picture story and tv rights sold in advance to the natives

5. Separation Energy (Taylor): How will it continue to function, he wonders, if the party in power channels her resources towards some candidate of unknown potential?

6. When Death Comes (Mary Oliver): When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn; when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse to buy me, and snaps the purse shut . . .

Listen below. The transcript follows.

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

1.
Messages

10,000 birds circle around
a single point, she says,
spreading seed in patterns
on the tiles of the town’s small plaza.

To the birds that have landed
on her arm, she says,
if, over there, any of you
see my mother, tell her I’m fine,
despite everything,
as are my daughter and sister.
Tell her that we fixed,
finally, the front porch step
that used to creak
when the rains were done.
Tell her also, she says,
we miss her. Every day.

Then looking each bird in the eye,
she says, as for my husband,
as before, as when
he was still alive,
if you should see him,
and I hope that you do,
make sure he knows
that, coming from me, there is
no message.

2.
Sweet Darkness

by David Whyte

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone,
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your home
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

3.
Cosmodemonic

Hi. You’ve reached the Cosmodemonic* Cellular Network,
If you’ve called to solve your issues,
if you want support,
if you want to be seen, to be recognized,
to be consoled, if you want compassion,
if you want to feel more grateful,
if you want to connect to the world
in a deeper way, on a deeper level,
if you want a better world
for your children and grandchildren,
if you want to be acknowledged,
and overcome the loneliness and angst
of living day to day, hand to mouth,
in a world that just wants to keep you down
in a world that wants hold you back,
that just keeps grinding you down
until you’re old and hunched
and every last dream
has been sucker-punched out of you,
if you want to speak to a human being
who will sympathize and empathize
someone who will actually listen to you
and help you to solve your problems,
please press 9 now.

I am such a kidder.
Please press any number to be disconnected.

* See Henry Miller’s The Tropic of Capricorn for more details

4.
I Am Waiting

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

5.
Separation Energy

The temperature has dropped,
the constructs have vanished,
and the woman
the lab assistant’s been seeing
will not return his calls.

He shakes his head, saying,
The tensile strength of the bridge cables
will not hold if the vibration continues
at these unprecedented levels.

How will it continue to function, he wonders,
if the party in power
channels her resources
towards some candidate
of unknown potential?

Only the victim, he says,
ear to the ground, will know
and only after speech
has failed him already.

6.
When Death Comes

By Mary Oliver

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world

Poetry credits:
Sweet Darkness by David Whyte
I am Waiting by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When Death Comes by Mary Oliver

SFX Credit Attribution:
Latin Elevator Muzak by achase4u/Pond5
Phone, internal, ring, standard by bigroomsound/Pond5

Poetry April 28, 2020

Nine Spring Haiku

A lonesome twister
lifts blossoms into the air
then ceases to be

≈

Early morning grey,
the world without human sound—
the birds don’t miss it

≈

The usual rain
but the playing field’s grass is
taller than ever

≈

Winter’s given up
letting the sun have its way,
warming empty streets

≈

The air may be clear
but this evening’s sunset has
little to work with

≈

No one to stop for,
the empty train displaces
blossoms from the track

≈

The dark clouds arrived
but the fierce predicted rains
barely wet the grass

≈

Though no one can come,
the church bells ring and ring and
ring and ring and ring

≈

A surprise meeting
so much to say—a single
word will have to do

Stories February 1, 2020

Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 3

Anachronism

The last thing H. remembered was getting in bed next to his wife, hoping to get enough sleep before his presentation in the morning. Now, he was being dragged in chains down a dirt road toward a bonfire. People were yelling. People were cheering. They threw rocks at him.

G. woke feeling pleased with himself. This was a new time, a new place. He would have to learn the language. In the meantime, there was a woman in bed with him, who was responding to his touch.

Clandestine

They had gotten out of the city. No cell service. No electricity. Not a single soul knew they were there. The view was absolutely breathtaking.

However, it was ten below, and the car wouldn’t start.

Penultimate Moment

The moment I realized he really was from another planet, was the moment I regretted everything I had just said.

Coming to

K. woke up on a plane and found himself tied up. Someone said he was a hijacker. This made no sense. Why was he even on a plane? But the more he thought about it, the more he supposed it was true. I need to get out of these ropes, he thought, and back to the situation at hand.

Mamma Mia

She mixed up Queen and ABBA because of a lyric and her life has never been the same.

Last Words

The stage was set. Everyone was gathered around his bed. He knew he’d be gone before evening. Thankfully, he had rehearsed this moment in his head for months. He would relish this moment.

Later, at the very end, unable to speak, his last thought was: I will never learn.

“I was Told Not to Contact You… “

Inside the big box, was a much smaller box in the middle of all the packing plastic. He unwrapped it carefully. It was a family portrait. There was a thick coating of dust on top of the frame.

He examined the photo and recognized himself as a very young boy, but he did not recognize anyone else.

Rules?

“Santorini! . . . “Santorini! . . . Please!”
“You and your safe words,” she said. “How adorable.”

The Metamorphosis

S. woke up feeling very strange.
He got out of bed, went to the mirror,
and found himself looking at a cartoon lion.
Heavens to Murgatroyd, he said.

Wait, there’s more:
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 1
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 2
Ten Very Short Stories, Vol. 4

Stories January 20, 2020

Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 2

He Asked

“If you could go back in time, what’s the one thing
you would change about your life?”

She told him.

Reprimand

“I’m sorry ma’am,” said the officer.
“Did he suffer?” she asked.

Later, at the station, the commissioner said,
“Look, there are some situations
that don’t require the god-awful truth.”

Ghost

He hypothesized that he was a ghost.
He lectured and explained.
His evaluation of the literature was intriguing.
He presented persuasive examples.
I had many questions
but he simply kept talking as if I wasn’t there.

Worse Ways

Well,” the detective said to his partner,
as he walked away from the body.
“There are worse ways to die.”

“Not many,” she said.

Waiting for the Mask to Drop

Beneath my seat, instead of a floatation device,
there was a packet of plastic eyes.

Yeah, We Found Him

Nothing else to do, we fed his dogs
and called the sheriff on the short wave.

Wait a Minute

Looking at their wedding photos, they compared notes,
and realized that neither one knew the guy
who had introduced himself to each as “the uncle.”

Driver’s License Photo

He looked through the wallet he had found
that evening on the beach, on a pile of clothes, no one around.
He would have rent money after all.

Later, while relaxing for the first time in weeks,
there was a story on the news about a local woman
who had committed suicide.
She looked familiar.

Red then Green

“It has to be done in the exact order.”
“Wait, what?”

It was Funny at the Time

The anesthesia was just kicking in,
and it was time for the procedure.
“See you on the other side,” she said.

Wait, there’s more:
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 1
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 3
Ten Very Short Stories, vol. 4

Poetry January 17, 2020

Four Rilke Translations

Archaic Torso of Apollo

We did not know his unheard-of head
in which the apples of his eyes ripened.
Yet his torso still glows like a candelabra
in which his vision, just turned down,

holds its own and shines. Otherwise, the bow
of his chest could not blind you, and a smile
could not run through the slight turn of the loins
to this center which carried creation.

Otherwise, this stone would stand disfigured and small
under the transparent fall of the shoulders
and would not flicker like the fur of a beast

and would not burst out of its borders
like a star: for there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

Archaischer Torso Apollos

Wir kannten nicht sein unerhörtes Haupt,
darin die Augenäpfel reiften. Aber
sein Torso glüht noch wie ein Kandelaber,
in dem sein Schauen, nur zurückgeschraubt,

sich hält und glänzt. Sonst könnte nicht der Bug
der Brust dich blenden, und im leisen Drehen
der Lenden könnte nicht ein Lächeln gehen
zu jener Mitte, die die Zeugung trug.

Sonst stünde dieser Stein enstellt und kurz
unter der Shultern durchsichtigem Sturz
und flimmerte nicht so wie Raubtierfelle;

und brächte nicht aus allen seinen Rändern
aus wie ein Stern: denn da ist keine Stelle,
die dich nicht sieht. Du mußt dein Leben ändern.

The Panther

in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris

His gaze has, from the passing by of the bars,
grown so weary, that it no longer holds anything.
It seems to him, there are a thousand bars,
and behind a thousand bars, no world.

The soft tread of strong supple steps
which turn in the smallest of all circles,
is like a dance of power around a center
where a great will stands numbed.

Only sometimes, does the curtain of his pupil
silently open—then an image enters,
and moves through the silent tension of the limbs
and into his heart, where it ceases to be.

Der Panther

Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris

Sein Blick ist vomVorübergehn der Stäbe
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
sich lautlos auf — dann geht ein Bild hinein,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille —
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.

Autumn Day

Lord, it is time. The summer was huge.
Lay onto the sundials your shadow
and let the winds loose upon the fields.

Command the last fruits to be full.
Give to them two more warm southern days,
urge them to perfection, and chase
into the heavy wine, the last sweetness.

Whoever has no house now, will not build one.
Whoever is alone now, will remain so for a long time,
will stay awake and read, write long letters,
and wander up and down the avenues,
restless when the leaves are blown.

Herbsttag

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird Es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

Night-Walk

Nothing is comparable. For what is not completely
itself alone, and what can ever be expressed?
We name nothing. We can only endure,
realizing that here a glint
and there a glimpse has touched us perhaps,
as if our life was lived in them.
For the one resisting, the world will not become.
And the one who knows too much
will be overlooked by the eternal. At times,
on such huge nights, we are,
as if out of danger, dealt in equal light parts
to the stars. How pressing they are.

Nächtlicher Gang

Nichts ist vergleichbar. Denn was ist nicht ganz
mit sich allein und was je auszusagen;
wir nennen nichts, wir dürfen nur ertragen
und uns verständigen, daß da ein Glanz
und dort ein Blick vielleicht uns so gestreift
als wäre grade das darin gelebt
was unser Leben ist. Wer widerstrebt
dem wird nicht Welt. Und wer zuviel begreift
dem geht das Ewige vorbei. Zuweilen
in solchen großen Nächten sind wir wie
außer Gefahr, in gleichen leichten Teilen
den Sternen ausgeteilt. Wie drängen sie.

Scott Taylor