So — some context. Taylor is a sequence of interconnected poems, a short story in rhythms, if you will. As a short story, it will have a beginning, a middle, and end; and there will be some drama and romance along the way. However, as ten poems, it will be shorter than anything other than flash fiction, and compressed, and probably elliptical and gnomic.
The sequence is as yet unfinished, though I have ideas and notes for it. I’m using the blog to think out loud about the structure, and what goes where, and to get feedback from… well, anybody who fancies feeding back.
Given that the poems will appear out-of-order here, and in draft form, nobody will have the faintest idea what is going on, although you might get the drift as more poems appear….
Anyway, without further ado, here’s Taylor II…
Your fine profile has been chiselled from stone
By the finest of sculptors. My bias
Shows. I am in love with you. You don’t know,
Of course. You assume that I am your friend,
But I want more. Much more. Yet to tell you
Would be to destroy everything, I think.
Our friendship, this other intimacy,
Could it survive such a revelation?
You have never shown such an interest.
We can simply stay in this house together,
This small house by the rattling shingle beach,
Share sunny spring days before the tourists come.
I like this room. Minimal: table and chairs,
Sofa, floorboards exposed, rugs here and there,
Cheap pictures on the wall (but framed nicely),
And, anyway, pictures I like, blue seas,
Skies, beaches, and a girl walking along.
Then, of course, there’s you. Your hair. Your guitar.
We wake most days to sea-roll and Earl Grey;
Then I buy a French stick from the baker.
It’s only March and the roads are quiet.
There is a gentle sea behind the wall.
Later this week, there are high winds forecast;
My heart fills, thinking of sea heave and crash
And our retreat to the warmth of this room,
And a wood fire roaring in the fireplace,
And perhaps the promised plate of chilli,
And then comfort in me as the house shakes.
Today, though, as we eat bread, and drink tea,
You look at me across your mug, and all changes.
“Taylor,” you sigh. And I fall into you.