Scott Taylor
Category

Poetry

Category
Poetry

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.

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Rilke
Poetry

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with their pictures, withdrawn from us,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

Read more:
Four Rilke Translations

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Podcast Transcripts

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

  1. Thanks
    Gratefulness puts the pedal to the metal and crashes into the void in W.S. Merwin‘s poem Thanks.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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.
  5. 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!
  6. 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.
  7. 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 O    n 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

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.

 

 

© 2021 Words and Music by Scott Taylor, unless noted otherwise.

 

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Poetry

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

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Podcast Transcripts

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 . . .

© 2020 Words and Music by Scott Taylor, unless otherwise noted.

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

 

 

© 2020 Words and Music by Scott Taylor, unless noted otherwise.

 

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

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Poetry

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

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Poetry

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.

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Five Rilke Translations

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Matter: No Way Out but Through, episode 3

Oh People!

The third show of No Way Out but Through is live!
A warning for the wary listener: everyone dies in this one.

Show 3: Matter

Imagine yourself in the middle of a world-destroying catastrophe. Now imagine that we have a short quiz for you. It won’t take but a minute. The world is a dusty, dark chaos, and the trap our unreliable narrator finds himself in gets more dire as the story goes on. Agents Angstrom and Kinski find themselves in a different kind of trap—and due to a lack of budget, and thus, vocal talent, poor Kinski doesn’t even get a speaking part. An announcement that the hit show Arena is returning to the air tonight to answer the question, “What Happens After We Die?” Then The Race is On—with apologies to George Jones, Tom Durkin, and Larry Collmus. And finally, a poem about life, the universe, and everything.42

Listen:

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

Matter

1.
Three Questions

One.
If, in the course of a world-destroying catastrophe,
you know a science fiction or science magazine type disaster—
an asteroid hits the earth, the sun is extinguished, a nuclear war
or climate change disaster makes the planet unlivable—that kind of thing—
anyway, if you could save hundred people,
not including yourself, who would be flown via rocket,
to another planet where they could survive,
which one hundred would you choose?

Two.
If you could, would you send some sort of monster to live there with them?

Three.
Exactly what kind of monster?

 

 

2.
If Nowhere has a Middle

The only washing machine in town sits on a corner by the remains of a gas station, which looks to have been abandoned at least two decades ago. It’s plugged into a light pole by the street. There’s a water spigot it’s hooked up to, and a drainage hose that runs a few feet and then dead ends in the parking lot.

It’s past midnight. The streetlight barely glows, its light constrained by a thick coating of dust on the glass. The next light is about a quarter mile down the road, barely as bright as a minor star.

The wind picks up. A small twister forms in the parking lot, spinning bits of trash up into the air. As I dump my clothes from a canvas bag into the machine, a car pulls up and parks between the pump island and what used to be the front door.

Three young men get out. They leave the doors open and light each other’s cigarettes. There’s music playing but I can’t make anything out about it. They don’t pay me any mind. They just lean against the car and smoke.

A couple walks by on the opposite side of the street—European travelers with impressive backpacks. They stop and illuminate their map with a powerful flashlight. They look up. They look around. They point. They fold the map into a perfect rectangle, and continue on in the same direction.

I start the machine and lean against it as the tank fills. I don’t bother with the temperature control—all the water here is warm.

The wind picks up even more. Dust is suddenly everywhere. I should have waited until tomorrow. My eyes burn. My mouth is dry with dust..

The men get inside the car. They close the doors rigorously but I do not hear the sound it makes. Breathing is unpleasant. I can’t swallow. I get a little too caught up in imagining my death by suffocation.

There’s a phone booth at the edge of the parking lot. I hold my breath and make my way toward it. Getting the door to even budge is difficult. I rattle it around and it finally loosens. I jerk it open, and close it hard behind me. I take a short exploratory breath.

Another car pulls up. The windows of both cars roll down. They talk briefly. They exchange . . . something. The first car leaves.

The phone book is long gone. The cable it once hung from is all that’s left. The receiver is dangling, so I hang it up. Old candy wrappers and flattened cigarette butts paper the floor. Some pale, yellow weeds grow through a crack where the booth is attached to a cement block. I’m protected from the wind, but I am also trapped inside while it blows.

I can barely see anything outside. There’s dust in the booth now. Trash is blown and pinned against the glass. The booth creaks. It seems like it should hold, given how it’s bolted to the block but I’m not totally convinced.

There’s a big strong loud prolonged gust, and the lights go out. Larger objects start striking the booth, branches and boards. The world is a swirling dusty dark chaos.

Then it lets up and everything is silent like I’ve gone deaf.

Then I hear the car start and drive off. I hear it drive down the road. I hear it for a very very long time. If nowhere can be said to have a middle, then that is where I am.

I consider grabbing my wet clothes, and making a run for it but I’m not convinced I could find my way in the dust and the dark. I slump against the side of the booth, unwilling to leave, unable to decide anything.

 

Now I see the headlights of five, maybe six, cars pull into the lot. A bunch of doors burst open. I hear voices. Some yelling. There seem to be two factions. I can make out the legs of many men silhouetted by the headlights of the cars.

I am hoping they leave before they notice me, but the phone rings. It’s loud. It’s shrill. It’s the only noise in the entire world. I pull the receiver off to stop the ringing. A man says, Stay right where you are. We are on our way. Outside, the men from the cars have stopped arguing. One of the cars backs up, so its headlights are pointed my way. Every single one of them sees me now. They pull out their guns and begin moving toward the phone booth.

 

 

3.
Road Block

 

one

The Coast Highway. 9:30 pm.
Agent Kinski is unconscious and needs help.

We were traveling down 101, as planned. However, there was an unexpected road block about a quarter mile from the epicenter. There are plenty of falling rocks and washouts on this road this time of year but there was no mention on the road report that had been generated just thirty minutes before. The structure looked far more formidable than necessary, for even a washout.

We got out of the car. The air felt thick. It smelled of ozone . . . of something floral, something sweet. . . It smelled of decay.

From a distance the structure looked legitimate. However, the closer we got to it, the more bizarre it became. We saw what looked like a cargo cult version of a falling rocks sign, like it was copied without knowing its purpose.

The structure itself, while imposing, didn’t look heavy. It didn’t look like it was made of metal. It wasn’t smooth. It looked organic. It looked like it was made of . . . some sort of black coral.

Agent Kinski went in closer to investigate. She pushed on it to see if it would move. She thought that maybe we could just move it out of the way. It gave a little where she pushed. Then she backed away. She said, “it’s already too late,” then collapsed.

Her hand was red and purple, like it was bruised and inflamed. She was delirious for a few moments before going totally unconscious. I moved her to the car, careful to avoid her hand. She’s breathing but needs help. Ten miles back from here, there’s a spot where a copter could land. I’ll try to make it there. Be ready to evacuate Kinski.

 

two

I hope you’re receiving this because we are trapped. Another structure, identical to the first one, is now blocking the road a quarter mile back—where there was nothing fifteen minutes ago. Kinski is not well. Her breathing is shallow. She’s making noises in her sleep—like she’s speaking in tongues.

I doubt my gun is of any use at all. The flamethrower will not do much in the rain. I don’t want to use the explosives unless I have to. My next move is to see if I can drive the car straight through it.

 

three

Send reinforcements now. We are careening down the hill. The road is washed out. We are in a mudslide. It looks like we are on some sort of bobsled run, maybe it’s some sort of lumber thing. It’s totally black at the bottom, like there’s a big hole or no wait . . . there’s something there. . .

 

 

4.
Arena Promo

Coming up later tonight,
the hit show Arena
triumphantly returns to the air
to answer the question:
What Happens After We Die?

On tonight’s show,
teams representing Christianity,
Islam, and Buddhism
will square off in the Arena
with Medieval weaponry,
the winners gaining
the right to decide . . .

What Happens After We Die

Find out the answer
to this age-old question,
tonight at nine.

 

 

 

 

5.
The Race is On

(after George Jones, with inspiration from Tom Durkin and Larry Collmus)

And through the iron gates, they’re off—

Getting out fast is Healthy Child followed by Doctor’s Orders
then, running together, it’s Confused Parent and AntiVax
it’s Healthy Child and Doctor’s Orders
but AntiVax and Confused Parent are making a move,
Doctor’s Orders is falling off the pace
here comes AntiVax
with Confused Parent along for the ride.
and now Measles Outbreak is moving along the rail
Doctor’s Orders is completely out of the picture
it’s AntiVax, Confused Parent, and Measles Outbreak
followed by High Temperature and Nasty Rash
and coming up on the outside, It’s Nothing to be Done,
Tiny Casket, and Devastated Parents

Now at the first curve, High School Jock
and Glory Days are running together
it’s High School Jock, Glory Days,
and here comes College Team
it’s High School Jock and Living the Dream
oh but College Team is applying the heat,
Glory Days are gone for good,
High School Jock is falling back
now its Softball Team and Middle School Coach,
with Lumber Mill just two lengths back
It’s Softball Team, Middle School Coach, and Lumber Mill
along the rail, here comes Jack Daniels,
Drunken Brawl, and Night in Jail,
Middle School Coach is nowhere to be seen,
and now, Lumber Mill has dropped completely off the pace,
coming on strong, it’s Recruitment, Army, and Basic Training,
it’s Military Exercise, and now Friendly Fire,
followed by Devastated Family,
Too Many Questions,
Closed Casket,
and Folded Flag.

Music Prodigy is making her move,
it’s Young Artist, Recognition, and College Scholarships,
and here comes Big City and Big Time Tryouts,
it’s Practice, Practice, Practice,
it’s Audition, It’s Passion, and here comes Failure,
Audition and Failure are running neck and neck,
Passion is dropping off the pace,
it’s Practice, followed by No Longer Fun,
Music Prodigy is in a tight spot,
and here comes Depression and Too Much to Drink,
it’s Failure, it’s Pressure,
it’s Depression and Too Much to Drink
it’s Big City, it’s Rooftop,
it’s Ah, Might as Well Jump.
it’s Stunned Friends, Disappointed Family,
and Closed Casket.

Now on the back stretch,
Happily Married is leading along the rail
followed by Is This All There Is
Stuck in the Middle with You is three lengths back
it’s still Happily Married, Is This All There Is,
and here comes Late Night at Work,
now Attractive Secretary is making her move,
is This All There Is has moved in front of Happily Married,
Attractive Secretary is looking good,
it’s Late Night at Work, How About a Nightcap,
it’s Instant Fires, and then Drunken Evening,
Happily Married has fallen off the pace,
It’s Attractive Secretary
and now Red Camaro is coming on hard,
it’s Drunken Evening, and now Bachelor Pad,
Attractive Secretary Is falling back,
it’s Late to Work, Utter Chaos, and Too Much to Drink,
And here comes Untimely Dismissal, and Divorce Papers,
Attractive Secretary is nowhere to be seen,
it’s Too Much to Drink,
And now pulling ahead on the outside,
it’s Fatal Accident,
Devastated Family,
and Uncomfortable Funeral.

Now finally making its move, it’s Late Bloomer,
followed by Lifelong Masterpiece, it’s Late Bloomer
really picking up the pace, then Lifelong Masterpiece,
and Encouraging Feedback,
It’s Late Bloomer and here comes,
Multiple Publications along the rail,
things are looking up for Late Bloomer but wait,
here comes Hard to Concentrate, and Doctor’s Appointment,
with Multiple Tests running just behind,
Lifelong Masterpiece is dropping off the pace,
it’s Test Results, Bad News, and Oncology,
Lifelong Masterpiece is completely out of the picture,
Late Bloomer is really falling back,
it’s No Energy, and Disbelief,
it’s Denial and Regret,
It’s Unfinished Masterpiece,
Time’s Wingèd Chariot is hurrying near,
It’s Death of Ivan Ilyich,
Too Little Too Late,
Late Bloomer is done.

Now it’s Old Maid at the rail,
Living Alone is on the outside,
Estranged Family is a half-length back,
here comes Missing Medicaid Check,
No Insurance, and Low Funds,
followed by No Heat,
and now Heart Problems is nipping at her heels,
it’s No Insurance, it’s Heart Problems
it’s Lonely Lonely Death,
it’s Long Week, and Neighbor Complaint,
Then Fire Department and Terrible Odor,
it’s Sad Hungry Pomeranian,
Closed Casket,
And Ill-Attended Funeral

And into the homestretch they come,
it’s Early Death, Late Death, and Unexpected Death,
it’s a Crushing Death,
a Shooting Death, an Instant Death,
it’s a Death that’s been a Long Time Coming,
It’s Homicide, Genocide, and Suicide
it’s Self-Immolation, and Collateral Damage,

And it’s the Big Sleep, Bit the Dust, and Bought the Farm,
it’s Cashed in his Chips, Come to Rest,
and Crossed the Great Divide,

“It’s Departed, Defunct, and Ceased to Be,
It’s Rung Down the Curtain
and joined the Choir Invisible”
(Monty Python, Dead Parrot Sketch)

It’s Giving Up the Ghost,
Left the Building,
Met his Maker,
and Kicked the Bucket,
it’s a Permanent Vacation,
Put to Bed with a Shovel,
and Pushing Up the Daisies,

it’s Six Feet Under,
Snuffed Out,
and finally,
Shuffled off this Mortal Coil

 

6.
Matter

At some point, somehow,
almost impossibly,
the universe begins
and, for a while, exists,
then, at some point, dies,
but along the way,
luckily, amazingly, somehow,
who could say why,
in local instances anyway,
things begin to attract weight,
things begin to matter

 

 

 

SFX Credit Attribution:

Horses Racetrack, Montevideo, Uru provided by sounddogs/ Pond5
Horse Racing Crowd Cheering At End Of Flat Race provided by soundsvisual/Pond5
Race Track Crowd, Gates Open provided by ProSoundEffects/Pond5
Horse Race Meeting Crowd provided by jfxsound/Pond5
War Drums provided by jmac713/Pond5
Wind Desert Sand provided by clacksfx/Pond5
Rain hitting roof provided by quietswede/Pond5

 

 

 

 

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Past Tense: No Way Out but Through, episode 1

Oh People!

I am excited to announce the existence of my podcast—
No Way Out but Through.

The podcast is a deployment of monologues, poems, music, and stories that revolve around a central theme. It’s waking upside-down in a car filling with water. It’s the strange piece of metal you found with the map brought back from your dreams.

Show 1: Past Tense
A psychic finds a strange piece of metal with a map brought back from her dreams. Scott draws some questionable conclusions about the present, based on serial misreadings of his own past. A town reacts to long-awaited infernal signs. The Past is your permanent crazy ex who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart. From the radio desk, Scott suggests a weekend activity for the kids at the Armory, involving art and knives. He then gives a quick update about last week’s freak eclipse. And finally, a time-travel caper.

Listen below. The transcript follows.

http://scott-taylor.buzzsprout.com

Past Tense

1.
The Psychic’s Tale

I’m afraid of bridges, she says.
Hot sun. Steel cables. Traffic.
The water slowly rising.
Nothing to be done.

Now, in a room filled with mirrors,
she tells her story again,
and the needles
on the machines go crazy.
The doctor questions her once more
about the yellow birds
destined to block out the sun,
and the strange piece of metal
she found with the map
brought back from her dreams.

Everything in history, she says,
is five seconds old.

 

2.
Ten Years Ago

“Anyone who isn’t embarrassed of who they were last year probably isn’t learning enough.” 
― Alain de Botton

Ten years ago, I remember thinking, very distinctly, that I have finally figured it out. I understand where I’m going, who I am, and what the past means.

Now, to make this assessment, I was comparing myself to the self I was ten years before that—which is to say, twenty years ago—when I had previously thought: I have finally figured it out. I know where I’m going, who I am, what the past means.

It turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong . . . except perhaps ten years before that, when I was as wrong as it gets. Then, I was completely in the dark. It was amazing how stupendously wrong I was.

Now, as I’m sitting here. . . and I know what this sounds like—I mean, I know my track record here . . . but I just want to say that, right now, at this moment, I really and truly believe, in my heart of hearts, that I honestly have my shit figured out . . . I understand where I’m going, who I am, and I absolutely know what the past means . . .

One hundred percent.

 

3.
Infernal Signs

Yesterday, after an absence
of almost a hundred years,
the goats came back to town.

Some people
have begun selling
their worldly possessions.
Others think,
about behaving,
irresponsibly

 

4.
Inescapable

The past is a black Buick
filled with 40s film gangsters,
who pull even with you on a winding road
on a cliff by the ocean
and knock you over the side.
On your way down,
your life flashes before your eyes.
and it’s so boring
you can’t wait to hit bottom.

The past is the pitcher
who does not bother
backing you off the plate with high heat
but simply throws at your unhelmeted head.
The past is the catcher who kicks you in the nuts
while you’re sprawled out on the ground.
The past is the umpire who laughs,
and calls you out.

The present is the frog in the pot
and the past is what is turning up the heat.

The past is your permanent crazy ex
who knows all your passwords—and secrets—by heart.

The Past says:
order another round.
It says: Keep on talking.
It says: Say things without thinking.
Say things you don’t mean.
It’s your god-given right
to speak up and speak out.
In fact, let me do all the talking.

The Past says:
What you’ve said and done
is said and done.
There is no undo.

The Past says:
Do not bother arguing.
I am rigid and right
and will win every time.

The Past says:
I am all-powerful, all-knowing.
Thou shalt have no other gods before me.
It says: get down on your knees.

The Past says:
The present is nothing.
The present doesn’t last
for even a second.
It doesn’t exist.
The present is a myth.

The Past says:
The entirety of your life is in the past.
Every single bit of it.
It is unchangeable, irreversible, unalterable,
and you screwed it up so many times,
that all you can do now
is ride your poor little miserable existence out
until it breaks down completely
like a hundred-dollar car.

The Past says:
I am inescapable.
I am your masterpiece.
I am your immutable body of work.

It says:
Obey.
It says:
Get down on your knees.

 

5.
Ephemeral Art Day

Hey, welcome back. If you’re looking to do something with the kids this weekend, bring them on down to the armory this Saturday at 10am for the third annual Ephemeral Art Day.

Meet artist and craftsman Jack Tumble. You’ve likely seen Jack’s work at all the gift shops in town, and of course, at the airport and bus stations. His myrtlewood carvings are always a big hit with visitors to the area.

Jack will teach your kids how to carve and whittle with a knife. First, they’ll learn some knife safety from Jack and his assistant, and then work on carving their own dog, cat, or duck. They’ll be thrilled by the difference a couple hours can make, as they turn an ordinary wood block into a delightful animal shape.

Then Jack’s brother Jimmy will fire up the ol’ wood chipper and the kids will place their newly created masterpieces into the chipper where Jimmy will turn their art into useful, and valuable, beauty bark.

It’s a great way to teach kids that someday they’ll pass on and everything they’ve done in life will come to naught. As a memento of the day, they’ll receive a cubic foot of mulch containing chips from their carving, to take home and put on the flower beds.

That’s Ephemeral Art Day, this Saturday, 10am, at the armory. Admission is free.

 

6.
Scorcher

Thousands of nervous birds
fly over the plaza to block out the sun.
More on this story as it develops.

Popularity poll, says the radio.
Save on home furnishings.
Prepaid phone cards, it says.
The best is yet to come.
We’ll be right back.

The new governor steps
up to the microphone,
and begins speaking.
We cannot hear him
from where we are standing.
A murmur moves through the crowd.
Nobody we ask
can tell us what’s going on.

91 degrees, says the radio.
It’s going to be a scorcher.

 

7.
Every Kind of Siren

Every kind of siren. People shouting. Lights flashing. Everyone is frantic. I am running. Where am I? I stop to get my bearings and am immediately knocked down. I get up and stumble out of the way. The people running by look familiar, but I can’t place them.

More sirens. Fire trucks now. Two cars crash in the intersection, back away from each other, and drive off. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here.

In a store window, I get a look at myself. It doesn’t make sense. I’m a kid. I look down at my arms. I’m like thirteen or something.

It’s dark out. Warm. Middle-of-the-night. Summer. People are yelling about a fire. I recognize some of the people now—neighbors from when I was in junior high.

This is the night the barn was set on fire and took down an entire block with it. It was in the newspaper for months.

More police cars. I run to find the neighbor whose house burns down, who dies from complications. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I round the corner by the park, and see it is way too late to do anything. Why am I even here? The streetlights are off, but the fire flashes bright as day.

The firefighters get the people out, save what they can. Ambulances arriving. Paramedics. I see my neighbor taken away on a gurney.

I remember that the barn was set on fire by some boys I went to school with. Older boys. I see them in the crowd. I remember being shoved face-first into mud, the contents of my launch box dumped on the sidewalk as the bus pulled up. I walk toward a policeman but stop before I get to him. I cannot say anything. I have no proof. I cannot know that they did it. Without proof—they might think I did it. Next summer, after an argument, one of the boys will shoot his mother while she sleeps. The other will be in and out of jail until he enlists and dies overseas.

I see a girl I went to school with. We make eye contact. Our eyes say to each other: can you believe this is happening? She’ll be my girlfriend for a few months in high school. We’ll go to different colleges and lose contact. Later I’ll hear that she died of a broken heart and a failed liver at the age of 32. I resist the urge to go to her. We barely know each other at this age.

I suddenly realize that I’m trapped here, trapped in the past. Everything I know about the future does not help me. It will never help me. I have no idea how I got here. I have no idea how to get back. I do not want to live it all again—even knowing what I know.

The barn collapses. The houses are partly saved. Three people are taken to the hospital, same as I remember. I spot two friends. I slip into the crowd. I cannot possibly talk to them.

I walk through my old neighborhood. I want to be back where I belong. I do not want this second chance.

 

 

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