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Author Archives: literata72

Poem: Illusion

The saddest thing: when those we care about
And wish to love and hold within our lives
Are happier without.

We look within the mirror, look for lies
That surface when the lens of mind is broken;
We look within the eyes

To contemplate the all that isn’t spoken,
And what can never fully be expressed
And seldom be awoken

Except to crush the surface into dust,
Send ego through the dread refiner’s fire
As die it simply must.

The unmoved mover never suffers ire;
The soul within maintains its non-direction,
The rod to never tire,

But pluck away the thoughts of imperfection,
Dissolve illusion, smash it with a clout,
Then find a true reflection.

–Christina Finlayson Taylor
Autumn 2017

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Posted by on November 17, 2017 in Musings & Other Things

 

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Poem: Soul to Hero

My book in the making, so far, is yet more introspective than Villanelles & Varia. I’m happy with the flow of poems and whisper “Thank You, my Muse” upon completion of each one. Gratitude is important. Here is one that I penned the other day for my husband:

Soul to Hero

I’ve no desire to return
When one last time I leave the flesh,
But you, with tested sword in hand,
You relish the adventure
Of all I wish to leave behind,
So ‘round you’ll go and fall again:
Another life, another skin,
In order to remember,

And once again I’ll watch and wait
And send you signs, as now and then
You’ll long for all that you’ll forget
And must recall again.
The Evening Star is ever there:
Your guiding light, her golden hair,
And memories outside of time
Will swell a song within.

You’ll linger long in twilight eyes
And feel a long forgotten dream,
And when you see her gazing deep,
You’ll then remember me,
And fall into the loveless Love,
And softly, then, I’ll pull you in
With gentle winds that call you home
When once again you leave.


–Christina Finlayson Taylor
Autumn, 2017

 
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Posted by on November 10, 2017 in Musings & Other Things

 

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The World Within (My Home) – a Poem

I wrote this and a few others yesterday – all to be a part of a book in the making.

The World Within (My Home)

This cozy old Victorian,
Three levels, many rooms within,
Is one-stop-shopping for the eye;
There needn’t be a wonder why
We need not travel far and wide,
For all the world is tucked inside:

We hold a piece of history
And feel in hand its mystery,
From skull and bones to colored glass
To cinnabar and antique brass
To books of rarest quality.
We need not travel far, you see,
For art and artifact galore,
Museum, gallery and more…

The Absinthe room, the Red Salon,
Where poetry we muse upon,
The carnal chamber, upper north;
The dream machine for dreaming forth
The ghosts by night (our guests unseen,
The dark, the light, the in-between);
And in this room, the Internet,
The world within a box, and yet…

This cozy home is world enough.
It’s full of color, full of love,
And rife with music, candleglow,
And inward shine—we let it show.
We need not travel far and wide,
For all the world is tucked inside.


–Christina Finlayson Taylor
Autumn 2017

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2017 in Musings & Other Things

 

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Return of Inspiration, Another Book Forthcoming

A literary friend asked me a month or so ago if I was working on anything new. I said no. The river had been mostly dry for years, and life sometimes has a way of cluttering the mind and damming the flow. Nonetheless, she caused me to realize that I wanted to write again, and that was all that was necessary.

What firstly began happening was the surfacing of old poems that I had nowhere in print or online. They arose from the depths of mind like bubbles rising to the surface–it’s amazing how the mind can do this–and I transcribed them, so I have them again. After that, the flow of new material began, and what I thought might take a few years I now feel should only be a few months.

I’m now a third of the way through my second perfect-bound book (no title yet). This new collection sounds a lot like my first one, however I wanted to try something new, but I suppose one’s signature is one’s signature, and I’m just glad to be writing again.

Writing has benefits beyond creating, doing something productive with one’s time. I came to understand firsthand what a genuine problem the imagination can be if it isn’t channeled into something productive, because it will create its own world, breathe life into its own self as though simply entertaining the mind and essentially taking over, and it can truly make a mess of one’s relations with others. I find that my mind has quieted considerably since I began writing again. I’m sleeping better. My dreams are softer, more beautiful, and I’m back to awakening in the middle of the night to write lines down.

The only downfall is that the house gets a bit neglected at times, but nobody is complaining. I’m incredibly grateful for this feeling of clarity of mind and hope to have a book out in 2018.

Here’s one of this morning’s writings, written of the one who got me writing again:

“To a Friend Who Deserves a Poem”

Of Frigga’s yarn her days are spun,
Most blessed of the land,
And long I sought beneath the sun
To find myself a friend.

She emanates a bygone age,
A golden frame of time,
With sonnets sung unto the page
Of poised iambic rhyme;

But strong within as strong can be:
Of fire and ancient earth,
And truest of nobility
And far-extending worth;

Refined of mind but not afraid
To muddy up a hand,
Nor pluck a chicken, sink a spade
To cultivate the land,

Nor serve within to see her clan
As glad as glad can be;
And then, with gathered herbs in hand,
She’ll brew a cup of tea.



(My first title, Villanelles & Varia, is available at Amazon or through me: literata72@gmail.com.)

 
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Posted by on November 6, 2017 in Musings & Other Things

 

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Autumn

Each leaf, a teardrop.
Mama Tree must set them free:
Her golden children.













































I love this time of year. The house grows darker, the sky is often overcast, and the most pleasant window-views are the ever-changing autumn hues on the trees. Indoors, more music and candles, wine and crock-pot meals; and soon enough, a crackling fire in the wood stove.

It’s beginning to feel like autumn.

 
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Posted by on November 3, 2017 in Musings & Other Things

 

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Palm of the Hand Poems by Robert N. Taylor (a Red Salon Release)

Palm of the Hand Poems, a haiku collection by Robert N. Taylor, was originally released as a saddle-stitched chapbook back in 2011. That quaint little edition contained a total of thirteen poems for each of the four seasons plus a Sumi-E brush painting representative of each season. The paintings were executed by Taylor’s former wife, K. K. Taylor, whose work features more heavily in this new 230-page volume which contains fifty poems per season.

As a designer, and I’m beyond pleased with the presentation of the full-page images in particular and am looking forward to designing more books with larger images.

Palm of the Hand Poems pretty much “wraps it up” regarding Taylor’s decades of writing poetry. He continues to pen a tercet each day but is satisfied at this point that all of his poems are available in print.

Signed copies are available directly from the author: wulfing9@gmail.com.

 
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Posted by on November 3, 2017 in News & Reviews

 

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“Flashbulb Danger” – Poem by Jack Phillips Lowe

I love receiving physical hand-held mail from poets that we’ve published through Middle Island Press. Poet-friend Jack Phillips Lowe sent me a signed and numbered limited edition copy of “Flashbulb Danger,” which he refers to as an “Onzo Imprints broadside.” 🙂 Furthermore, it’s nice to be reminded now and then that there are poets out there who take their work seriously!

Flashbulb Danger

The night Ophelia left Tecumseh,
she didn’t say a fucking word.
She didn’t steal anything, either.

While Tecumseh was out whoring,
though, Ophelia did go
through his record collection
and switch every Bob Dylan disk
from its companion jacket
to another random sleeve.

So forever after, whenever
Tecumseh reached for Zimmerman,
he knew not what he’d get–
his ears might yearn
for Blood on the Tracks,
but taste The Freewheelin’ Bob instead.

But Tecumseh never bothered
to undo the chaos
Ophelia had wrought.
This crap-shoot, you see,
reminded him of
his long-gone girl and
the flashbulb danger
she’d brought.

Thank you, Jack! Your writing lightens my mood on this overcast day in West Virginia.


(Jack Phillips Lowe has two titles published through Middle Island Press, available at Amazon.)

 
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Posted by on November 3, 2017 in News & Reviews

 

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