"Daisy Lane Gothic" "No Two Exactly Alike" "The Nanny" "Outside the Frame: the Photographer's Last Letters to her Son" "Leaving the Peonies" "The Day After I Die" My favorite Marilyn Taylor quotes Marilyn Taylor links

Have you ever discovered the most wonderful thing by chance and a mood swing? Perhaps those things are the sweetest. I was shopping at Audubon Court Books, a fantastic small shop in Milwaukee where the ambience makes you never want to leave (and where I hope to work someday, who cares about the commute), and meandered morosely over to the poetry section, figuring there would be such an array of emotions there to match my own. I saw nothing but the usual big names, the Walt Whitmans, the Langston Hugheses, the Robert Frosts, all the people who made it and are perfect. Not exactly what a depressed young poet wants to read. On the top shelf was a thin, white hardcover. The dustjacket was plain with a silhouette of three trees; the title was Shadows Like These, and I was intrigued. I won't outline the escapades I went through to retrieve it from the top shelf, but when I rapidly leafed through it I knew I had found a gem. I had never heard of Marilyn Taylor, and I did a double-take when I saw the initials UWM (University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee) in the "About the Author." This woman teaches near me, lives near me, and writes near me. That amazed me. Recently, I proved the dexterity of Marilyn Taylor's poetry. I was so pleased with myself. LastMay, my English class covered an all-too-brief poetry unit, the main focus of which was to present a poem to a small "poetry circle." Joy. My friend Gina, who is in my English class, would sit, terrified of the project before her because she was somewhat dense about poetry, while I happily traversed the pages of Leaves of Grass, pointing out references from Dead Poets Society ("Look! This is where they get the term dead poets from!") The poor thing was clueless while I had a ball. The next day, I brought a bunch of books from home, one of which was Shadows Like These. After I decided I wouldn't use it, I handed it over to Gina, hoping the simple language would make sense to her. Boy, did it ever. She immediately clicked with "Outside the Frame" and "The Day After I Die," which she chose for her project. It felt so wonderful to spread poetry to somebody else. When Gina gave the book back to me two weeks later, she said, "I think I read every damn poem in that whole book!" Congrats, Gina. But she still won't touch Whitman. What's wonderful about Taylor's poetry is that mostly, it reminds me of mine. I love that. I feel such comradery. The football teams she writes about are shared between us, the parks she writes about are shared between us. How often is it that you share such real life with someone you idolize? It's wonderful. I have never found Shadows Like These or her other book, The Accident of Light, anywhere since then. I hope I find the second someday, and I hope you all enjoy what I am able to share with you of Marilyn Taylor's poetry.

Daisy Lane Gothic

This is a suburb; not the sort of place
where ruins are the norm. But there it was,
behind the thickets in the vacant lot:
a gate. And just behind the gate, a strip
of cinders — the ghost of what had been a wall.

The man, the dog, and I were mystified —
had there once been a cottage here, then
a fire? How long ago, and of what melodrama
was this scorched rectangle the final scene?
We scrabbled in our mental underbrush

and came up with a fragile heroine,
trapped in a magnificent, hopeless
affair. He loved her — compromised her — but
she was already married; when they parted,
her husband burned their love-nest to the ground.

That night, I dreamed of slender yellow fingers
writhing from the tops of trees, and curls
of silver smoke gauzing the hedges. Walls
on four sides reddened, heaved and buckled
while a great wind howled across the bed.

Then quietly, the lavender of morning
spilled over me; I touched the sleeping man
beside me, and the cool sheet on my skin
was light, serene — utterly unlike the raw,
tumultuous world of wild longing, of flame.

No Two Exactly Alike

Why have you closed yourself upstairs for hours
tending to a poem on this icy-moist, keen
April day? You and I could be outdoors
walking the woods, our boots leaving wet green
stains between the snowdrops and the paper-whites
still buried to their chins in snow, but no,
you've drifted up the stairs again to write
down still another simile for snow.

The Nanny

Mademoiselle ascends the stairs
to gather my baby into her strong arms
and sing to him her high chansons,
    to surrender a finger to his grip
    tight as a lover's.

I watch her anoint his marbled skin
with bathwater, cushioning
in the crook of her arm
    his tufted head
    so loosely attached.

She nods to me: Go out, Madame,
go dancing, make a night of it!
but the music plucks
    at the hem of my skirt
    tugging me home.

Now from behind the door
I hear them crooning
together in the sultry dark,
    Gallic vowels purring
    in his throat.

Outside the Frame: the Photographer's Last Letters to her Son

I.

Wildwood Farm, VT,:

April 3, 1991

Dear Chipper,
          Well, it's starting over — April's
back debauching us again, the woods
are soaking wet, the mud dazzles, all
our stringy willow trees are going blond
and sentimental (just like the women
who write about them) — and I rise to the sight
of the grass nudging up green, brimming
with narcissi, practically overnight!
— Narcissi. From a distance, don't they look
like froth? Or whitecaps? Makes me want to run
away to sea — my sea, Chip. A maverick
ocean that doesn't move, but invites me in
to take its photograph, to document
its miracles. So this morning, in I went . . .

April 20, 1991

It's my seventy-fifth April (sixty-fourth
with a camera in my hand) . . . and you wonder
why I desert my comfortable hearth
to crouch down on a patch of soggy tundra
taking pictures in the cold. Well, I'll
tell you why: it's to press my hands
against that rough young grass, to feel it yield
under my fingers, then to turn my lens
on the wetness underneath, where the soil
hides its buried treasure. Granite pearls,
flint sequins, limestone underpinnings — they're all
uncovered now, everything's exposed! The voyeur
in me goes feverish inside my head
watching the seeds moving in their satin bed.

April 29, 1991

. . . I'm cold today, Chipper. My jeans have two
black ovals in the front from where I knelt
to watch the moss, and it was well past noon
before I gave it up. (Everyone thought
I'd stayed too long; guess I'm getting old
and strange . . . .) But where was I? Mice? No, moss.
The farmers used to call it "elfin gold"
because it only grows in crevices
and caves. It doesn't want the sun at all —
just what the sun leaves behind, the dwindling
evidence of light — something like the pall
that hovers around a burnt-out candle.
They found me humming, reading with my thumb
its little poem to the millennium . . .

II.

Massachusetts General Hospital:

May 22, 1991

In response to your rude questions on the state
of my health: I am of sound mind

and in my hands I hold the weight
of my soul, a leaden comfort

in my palm. Its polished crystal eye
open, finds, fixes on the edges

of the enemy: a wall of grass,
leaves, stalks and stems, tapestries

of roots and vines — the wild green Other
that follows me, no matter how

I slash and scythe my little path —
pursues me, even as I back away . . .

III.

Wildwood Farm:

October 2, 1991

I must compose
myself, Chipper
and admit to you
that I am terribly
frightened, the camera
has developed so many
numbers and dials
I forget what they
mean; its rings
and buttons are all
mixed up and when
I finally try
to take a picture all
I see is parts
of my own eye
bristling with
daggers, staring
back at me
grotesque and huge

I must compose
and focus the lens
for precise pinpoint
focusing I must turn
the focusing ring until
the shimmering image
becomes sharp I must
use fast shutter speeds
to stop action stop
action or I will produce
a deliberate blur except
for certain unusual
lighting situations when
I must use the exposure
compensation dial to prevent
over-exposure I must
turn and turn until
the split image
becomes whole

IV.

Wildwood Farm:

January 25, 1992

Obviously the FBI
has come to find hard
evidence of my
incompetence. They
think they're fooling me,
they even say I
have met them before,
but I have never
met them before, these
blond harpies who keep
asking me my name
and what day it is
today (Up Yours-day?)
and the exact where-
abouts of my gloves
and earmuffs,
the pinking shears,
the keys to the
boathouse, my Knirps
umbrella (as if I
needed it in winter!)
the pancake syrup,
the bottle of
cocktail onions,
the thumbtacks, the
remote-control
TV channel changer,
extra extra pink
Pepto-Bismol,
some kitchen
safety matches
and a couple
of bowls of
excellent vanilla
custard from
Christmas.

V.

The Roundtree Convalescent Home:

February 4, 1992

. . . whereas now I hold my hands
at arms length and point
my index fingers skyward
and extend my thumbs
so that they meet tip to tip
thus making a frame (minus the top)

and with my frame I scan
the scenery; here a clump
of white buildings
there a face, or a flower,
but so often nothing, Chip —
nothing at all

VI.

Roundtree:

February 14, 1992

The loud-talking
women are back
with their folding

table and their
jigsaw puzzle:
"A Yorkshire Dale"

showing part of
a hill and some
trees with huge holes

in them as if
a cannonball
had torn through their

upper reaches.
Try, the women
yell, to find the

pieces, look, here
is some sky! But
it's hard, because

many are lost;
some are under
the table or

buried in the
cushions, a few
have been purloined —

slipped into the
untied bathrobe
of a hairless

geezer who says
he knows just where
the big tower

went; meanwhile in
our ears someone
croons Would we like

to swing on a
star? and at last
they wheel away

the puzzle and
bring another
in, dumping it

out and smiling —
as if to say
Maybe you won

that round, grandmaw,
but it's just a
matter of time.

VII.

Roundtree:

March 11, 1992

All I know is that it's
about this big
and I need it for
the things I do but
I can't remember
what it's called. You put it
in the bigger thing
and it keeps it there
for you so when you want
to look at something later
there it is.
You know what I mean,
it's about so big
and it's not square, it
isn't square at all,
it's that other.
You have to use it
to make things stay where
they used to be
so you can take them out
and look at them where they were.
But God help me I
can't find it anywhere.
All I know for certain
is that it's about this big
and I need it, I need it very much.

VIII.

Massachusetts General Hospital:

March 30, 1992

Have you come to say hello
maybe you will take me
I think it must be time
time to go now
goodbye

IX.

Wildwood Farm

April?

There are times each day
          when I go                                                                                           off
                                                                                                                       somewhere

when I return there is a little less of me
          as if

          each time                                                                                           mind and
                                                                                          one thread of memory

                                                                                                                   were pulled away

                   become
Soon I shall be
                          entirely
                              unravelled

                   I shall survive

                              as
                                        **afterimage**
                              as
                                        **gatherer of light**

Leaving the Peonies

Avoid thinking of them. Concentrate
instead on what we're loading in the van:
the wicker furniture, the silverplate,
the dogs, the parakeet, the IBM.
Don't dwell on the tangled tapestry
of roots wintering behind the evergreens,
or the sideshow they'll put on in May—
bursting into Harvest Moons, Doreens,
ten-inch Dinner Plates (overweight shrub goes
Hollywood!)—and that we won't be here
to see them. Foolish. Instead of peonies,
think high-rise, fresh paint, conditioned air—
     Who needs another torrid night that reeks
     of Carmine, Curlilocks, Angel Cheeks?

The Day After I Die

they will find the cure
for whatever got me,
and a unified theory
of physics will be announced
by a consortium
from M.I.T.

Following the funeral,
Earth will be contacted
by intelligent beings from
the Farquhar galaxy —
immediately after which
Chrysler will introduce a car
that can run forever
on table scraps.

Within the week,
Abbott Labs will introduce
an age-reversing cream
on the very heels of
a morning-after diet pill
that tastes like a Cadbury's
Easter Egg.

Finally,
the woman that they hire
to clean and fumigate my house
will come across a pile
of my old poems
and turn them over to
her Thursday client, Galway Kinnell,
who will gallantly take charge
and see to everything —
including, of course,
any immortality.

My Favorite Taylor Quotes









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