Poet david taylor biography
Trailer Park Quarterly
My Second Poem
I wrote about a high school girl
who had a father with angry fists
and a mother who liked pills.
One night she kissed me
in a high school parking lot at dusk
while I fumbled with the panties
held tightly against her virginity.
She was white. I wasn’t.
And I knew how this would end.
I knew before the sun had set,
before I said hello to her in the hallways,
or dreamt about her at night.
I knew before I was even born
that her father would come to yell
at his white daughter for being
with someone like me.
That his fists would be sledgehammers
against my thin frame,
that my body would break
under the weight of his boots.
I knew the whiteness of his rage,
that she would want to do something
other than cry.
But as I read over my poem,
past the mixed metaphors and uncontrolled syntax,
past the taste of blood and dirt and hate,
I remembered that I think I loved her.
Black Man Poetry
I used to write black man poems
about being black and a man.
But my words were discarded
in digital trashcans by white editors
wanting more—
a reason to demonstrate they understood
injustice and poverty,
food stamps and a dream deferred.
So I wrote about dreadlocks and marijuana,
stories about drunken fists shattering
my twelve-year-old bones
by my father who struggled
against the shackles of history,
the rage of being less than.
I said my brother was high,
got shot for being black
while walking across the street
to our barren apartment.
But then that didn’t matter
I was simply a black man writing
black man poetry.
Luckily Ferguson became hip
and white people paid better
when I talked about how black lives matter,
commercialized history chained
black men to textbooks,
whitewashed oppression and apartheid.
And I wrote about black fists penetrating
swollen skies and teargas raped
broken neighborhoods
while school children hid under
their beds until morning came.
But I finally ran out of
David Taylor
Sweetness is on your lips
like honey flavoured early morning dew.
And your eyes have a depth of blue
that even deepest oceans cannot match
Beauty is not a superficial form
Each has their own in essential nature
And in the actions they perform
Until the dissolution of their life
I dreamed a little dream of you;
too small a dream to contain
all the ways you reach out to me,
too short to encompass your eternity,
A snowy icy night, painted hill tops all are white,
all the rivers flow like ice, and raindrops fall as hail,
from so very, very high, above.
Whispered breath, a smoky kind of grey,
I sat and I watched as a flower gently unfolded
I sat and I watched as it blossomed with gold
reaching out from its centre its beauty was told.
The clay lay on the table before me;
it has just arrived and freed from its sack
with preserving amniotic fluid.
When it had first arrived at the door
how beautiful the sun's reflections make
the air touched, gently rippled lakes
perfectly formed and round
on the still pond it's found
We went to the beach to get wind in our hair
to stand on the sand and simply to stare.
To let the surf tickle toes and dampen our clothes
as we played 'run away'
under the shadow, over the brow
is a place where (i heard) ,
it always is now;
past the street lights, beyond the black night,
I prod the funeral pyre of my ego
with a sturdy stick.
One made of a question
that is most dear to my heart and soul.
I feel shut off, locked in, separated
(dark alone perilous) .
The woods call with soft green tones,
the sky yearns above,
what should be an invigorating freshness
a chill inside (shaking heart beats)
traffic on the road silent rising clanking passing
(silent again)
David A. Taylor
American author and filmmaker
David A. Taylor (born ) is an American author and filmmaker on topics in history and science.
Taylor's books include Ginseng, the Divine Root (Algonquin) and Soul of a People: The WPA Writers’ Project Uncovers Depression America (Wiley), which the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette ranked among the Best Books of
Taylor has written articles for The Washington Post, Smithsonian, Science, Microbe, National Geographic, and Washingtonian. He has written scripts for National Geographic Channel, PBS, Discovery and Smithsonian Channels.
Biography
Taylor's first book, Ginseng, the Divine Root, was published by Algonquin Books in June The Boston Globe called it "fantastic" and "one of those rare works that remind us what an endlessly surprising place the world is by revealing the drama concentrated in the past and present of one plant."Library Journal dubbed it "a fascinating tour" from "a master storyteller," and Publishers Weekly called it "an intelligent, wide-ranging account."
Taylor's second nonfiction book, Soul of a People: The WPA Writers’ Project Uncovers Depression America, published by Wiley & Sons in February , was named an Amazon Book of the Month and a finalist in the Library of Virginia Literary Awards. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette ranked the book among the Best Books of According to Southern Cultures, the book introduces "some of the most important American writers" of that period and shows "how these writers shaped the way Americans tell their histories." NPR featured the book on All Things Considered. In the Washington Independent Review of Books Cathy Alter wrote, "Taylor has a knack for taking unsung heroes and elevating them to star status," adding that Soul of a People was "a humane and seminal accounting of our country, not unlike Studs Terkel's Working."
Publishers W David Taylor () was a 19th-century Scottish poet, musician and songwriter. His most well-known work (or rather the phrase derived from it) is "The Proof of the Pudding". Working in the Scottish dialect his work was clearly influenced by Robert Burns. Like Burns he wrote in the true Scottish language of Doric which was usually wrongly seen as a corrupted version of English, and despite being the spoken language of the majority was not accorded the respect that the minority language of Gaelic was afforded. He was born on 4 April in Dollar, Clackmannanshire. His father David Taylor had been a builder in Auchtermuchty but had run off with Janet Eadie from nearby Cupar. They ran off to Dollar where they purported to be husband and wife. They were not, and this was revealed at the registration of David's birth. The couple then moved again to purport to be a young family. The family moved to St Ringan's in the town of St Ninian's, around 15 miles west, just south of Stirling. He had minimal education. He could read and write but started rhyming from an early age. Probably from around age 8 he began training as a handloom weaver (which was probably his father's trade). He tutored people in music in the evenings and ran a choir in the Charterhall district occasionally giving concerts in Stirling. His compositions appeared in local newspapers: the Clackmannanshire Advertiser, the Stirling Observer and Stirling Journal and proved popular. When he later moved to Alloa his works appeared in the Alloa Advertiser. Around he was taken to court in relation to his poem "The Wreck of the Countess". The steamship Countess was a ferry plying between Alloa harbour and South Alloa (near Falkirk) under command of Captain Meikle. On a summer's day it had foundered in the Forth Estuary. Taylor was taken to court by Captain Meikle for his "slanderous" poem but the judge dismi
David Taylor (poet)
Life and death