Tag Archives: Christina Finlayson Taylor

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:

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


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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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Villanelles & Varia by Christina Finlayson Taylor

Christina - Villanelles & Varia PB CoverVillanelles & Varia is special to me as it’s my first perfect-bound collection of my own poetry. These poems were written during a precious chapter in my life, a time when (as I told some friends recently) I had “too much playtime and a lot of growing up yet to do”! This collection is very personal; it’s ME turned inside-out, and I can only hope that this introspective poetry will resonate some familiar chords with readers.

I’ve been blessed to have received my first review of Villanelles & Varia at by Fran Stewart, a personal friend, fellow poetess and author of a few collections through Middle Island Press and other sources. I owe a lot to this inspiring lady.

Look inside my book at

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Posted by on March 17, 2016 in News & Reviews


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“At Home” with Middle Island Press

Green Room window view

Green Room window view

The morning’s coffee tastes of honey & cinnamon; the window is open and the birds are singing; a gentle breeze rustles a happy houseplant, ushers the outdoors in. Newly off the printer and into the sorter goes one of my projects. Shortly I’ll take a break from the table and slide over to the computer to continue layout of yet another project. I await word from a few poets who are almost ready to leap skyward, manuscripts gathered up and held securely within my promises.

Collating Chapbooks at Middle Island Press

Collating Chapbooks at Middle Island Press

Life is good and I am so fortunate to have settled into my literary niche which keeps my mind on poetry and the power of words. It’s great to be able to work from home yet be as professional as if I were sitting in an office. This “Absinthe Room” is my office of sorts, and it is the birth place of over fifty chapbooks between two presses. They began with my husband and me, then my daughter, my sister, and an area anthology which necessitated Middle Island Press, and it just keeps growing because growth is what I see. The more flowers that bloom in my meadow, the more
beautiful it will be, and more will gather
with me for coffee and the perennial scent
of spring and summer.

Charles Baudelaire by R. N. Taylor
Charles Baudelaire watches pensively from the West wall eight feet away. On the East wall near the window, George Bernard Shaw, both painted by my husband.

Much to do today.

I must return to the table and finish collating, then on to layout of another project, then back to folding and stapling. Eventually I’ll get out and enjoy some sunshine, thin the carrot bed a bit, and come back in for trimming; packaging tomorrow. Another gratified poet. Such is life and it is good!

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Posted by on May 21, 2013 in News & Reviews


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