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Moonlit

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It ascended in the twilight, even as I dropped
         down the winding roadway, and teased a view-
             blinking between the trees, a bit higher now.
At one point I even stopped

the car roadside to stare.  This moon, in full flower
                                   this playful, this passionate
     orb raced away and my mind raced after it,
chasing its reflection off a distant reservoir.

Around next curve there stood two
         massive owls in the roadway –
            partners sharing their prey.
One owl lept immediately and flew;

the other turned and stared a moment into the light
                           and was struck full-force.
                          I shuddered and I gasped
as it tumbled under the car and out of sight.

This was a different grieving.
                                   I knew the owl did not seek
               my apology, nor begrudge my mistake.
It did not miss this world nor mourn its leaving.

Still this was a sin of carelessness,
                 the destruction of such a creature.  And I knew it.
       As I drove I knew it, though it meant nothing to know it.
I erred.  It’s gone.  Both facts meaningless.

The hot memory cooled as I drove on.
       My black road cut a slot canyon beneath the pines.
         The moon had reached its zenith then, and shone
down on every thing, directly down.

-B Taylor, July 5 2024

The Safe Man

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To stroll the city market and notice
hot-pot boiling on its table, one leg
of which is repaired with duct tape;

and to observe also the running children
ducking to swerve underneath elbows
of adults sipping hot tea as they chat

is to endure a slow repeated needling
imposed on the few by the many
whose objective is other than safety.

After all, the bronze statues memorialize
risk takers.  No memorials are built
to honor the avoidance of undue risk

as he does now, stepping subtly before
a bicycle cart, to shield an old woman walking.
“To take the lowly place – this is honorable.”

To those who live in fire-protected tenements;
to the cooks, the elderly woman, the running children;
to the many un-burned, un-trampled people

he is not even an afterthought, but merely
a silent ghost who stares back at their faces –
not knowing which among them he has saved.

– B. Taylor Jun 20 2024

Making It

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It’s you and me today friend, in this hole.
Hydraulics to the main de-skinner burst
last night.  Deferring maintenance takes it’s toll.
So we’ll fix that. But let’s get coffee first.

How can a place like this even exist?
I mean, live cables, coiled in pools of blood?
Vats of pig guts. Whole place smells like piss.
But look: you’re making it.  You’re doing good.

In twenty years you’ll be where I am now.
Still running wires. Still covered up with grease.
Still keeping all this powered-on, somehow.
But closer to the end.  And more at peace.

You know the bosses call this work “essential”
and people here seem mighty proud about it.
But I don’t see it all so existential.
It’s breakfast meat.  We all could do without it.

-B Taylor Jun 20 2024

Notes on ‘Things We Say’

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Walter S was my grandfather. In his later years he repeated the same stories over and over. Probably a lot of grandfathers do that. I’m not quite there yet; but I sense it coming on. Sometimes I tell a story and think, “Maybe I told them that one already?”

So much gets said in our modern world. Much less of it really makes an impact of any kind.

I had a thought one day, that making a true connection with another human being was something like catching a trout on a dry fly in the river. Something you can try to do patiently all day, and yet still fail to do. And when it does happen, it feels a bit miraculous. That was the basic idea for this poem.

My grandfather was born in the 1800s; our ages never overlapped enough to fish together. But I always felt connected to him just due to his patience and kindness. And now with the old stories coming back to be repeated over and over.

Things We Say

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– for Walter S.

Things we say
flow ceaselessly
as the river flows
through the hollow gorge.

Standing in the river
without companions
one hears the river –
murmuring, wordless.

How we hope
the things we say
will deeply connect
with those we love.

Old timers repeat
their favorite lines,
the things they said
that truly connected,

that made all the difference.
Because after all,
there were so few times when
the line was just right

just perfectly laid out
for that one moment. No
most of the time
it should have worked,

it seemed just right but
something was wrong
The timing was off.
The color, unnatural.

Missed connections.
Stories not worth
repeating later.
They murmur, wordless.

Sometimes a flash
might rise to the surface-
There — look!
but then it recedes

unconvinced
for whatever reason.
Your line goes slack.
Your feet are cold.

Stand in the river.
Convince yourself.
The trout is there.
You must try again,

speak again.
Someday God-willing
you will be an old-timer
repeating your memories

of a very few lines,
your own deft lines when
you formed the connection,
you made some difference.

B. Taylor, 2016

Great Poems: “Song of the Master and Boatswain”

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This is a little poem by a big author, W.H. Auden. He wrote a lot of big poems. But I find Auden is at his best when he’s brief:

Song of the Master and Boatswain

by W. H. Auden

At Dirty Dick’s and Sloppy Joe’s
We drank our liquor straight,
Some went upstairs with Margery,
And some, alas, with Kate;
And two by two like cat and mouse
The homeless played at keeping house.

There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor’s Friend,
And Marion, cow-eyed,
Opened their arms to me but I
Refused to step inside;
I was not looking for a cage
In which to mope my old age.

The nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards of our mothers,
And hearts that we broke long ago
Have long been breaking others;
Tears are round, the sea is deep:
Roll them overboard and sleep.

*

The first two stanzas are accessible, almost to a fault. The author is remembering his time with friends as sailors. They’re meeting girls in port, they’re peeling off and trying to live a married life. They are, but “he” the author isn’t. It’s artfully worded but it’s practical. We get it.

In the third stanza suddenly we break away from the play-by-play of memories. Instead suddenly we are discussing some nightingales in a far-off garden. These birds and their songs are no longer a memory of who-did-what; but more an abstract idea. An idea that hearts have been broken; probably many in a web of heartbreaks. What to do now in the face of sad tears and memories? “Roll them overboard and sleep.” A great line…. simple and sad, like the poem itself.

Notes on “In Darkness”

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I wrote this poem as a draft in a short time, then left it sitting around for almost a year, and when I came back to work on another poem there it was. I read it for about an hour, re-arranged 4-5 words and declared it done.

Bedtime is a private and personal time… the time when a person is lying in the dark, awake and presumably trying to sleep. It’s a time when the mind has no more use for active work; and instead just works to settle itself. Sometimes that settled mind is not so easy to obtain.

In Darkness

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In darkness, the fears come.
Fears of loss, uncontrolled-
our children, our minds, our wealth
into cancer, into violence, or
some such terror. The fears come.

Later

in darkness, the plans come
to protect our guarded things.
And with the plans, rumination on
how plans are monitored, day by day,
night by night, the plans come.

Later

in darkness, the dreams come.
With blinding lights, brilliant fruits
arranged for feasts of the many dimensions,
and the touch of lovers long since gone
to the holy place, to Elysium.

“The Letter” Poem Translation

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I saw this poem by Heinrich Heine posted inside the Stuttgart ‘U-Bahn’ subway train. (Yes that’s the guys real name,. I couldn’t make it up.). It was posted in its original German language (obviously, in Germany). I appreciated the subway posting some poetry. Also it’s a good and simple poem in German. So I took a crack at translating it. First below is my final full-poem translation; then the literal (and therefore non-rhyming) translation to English, and finally the original version ‘auf Deutsch’ aka in German Language.

***

The Letter
– Heinrich Heine, 1800s
– translation by Bill Taylor 2022

No, it didn’t scare me
that letter that you wrote.
Your choice is not to care for me?
I read quote after quote

in this intricate 12-page document
constructing reasons why.
But no one writes such an argument
to truly say goodbye.

***

The Letter
-Heinrich Heine, 1800s
– literal translation

The letter that you wrote-
It scared me not at all;
You no longer wish to love me,
Although, your letter is long.

12 pages, prim and dainty-
a tiny manuscript!
One doesn’t write in such detail
when one says goodbye.

***

Der Brief
-Heinrich Heine, 1800s

Den Brief, den du geschrieben
Es macht mir gar nicht bang;
Du willst mich nicht mehr lieben,
Aber dein Brief ist lang.

Zwoelf Seiten, eng und zierlich!
Ein kleines Manuskript!
Man schreibt nicht so ausfuehrlich
Wenn man den Abschied gibt.

notes on ‘A Few Little Poems’

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I wrote these little poems at various times over the years. None of them seemed substantial enough to warrant their own post, so they just sat for a while as notes jotted down. After a while I started to list all the ‘Little Poems’ in one place, just to keep track of them. Together, they seem like enough to publish, and I liked how some of them turned out.