Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Marilyn L Taylor Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Marilyn L Taylor poems. This is a select list of the best famous Marilyn L Taylor poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Marilyn L Taylor poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of marilyn l taylor poems.

Search and read the best famous Marilyn L Taylor poems, articles about Marilyn L Taylor poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Marilyn L Taylor poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Subject to Change

  A reflection on my students

They are so beautiful, and so very young
they seem almost to glitter with perfection,
these creatures that I briefly move among.
I never get to stay with them for long, but even so, I view them with affection: they are so beautiful, and so very young.
Poised or clumsy, placid or high-strung, they’re expert in the art of introspection, these creatures that I briefly move among— And if their words don’t quite trip off the tongue consistently, with just the right inflection, they remain beautiful.
And very young.
Still, I have to tell myself it’s wrong to think of them as anything but fiction, these creatures that I briefly move among— Because, like me, they’re traveling headlong in that familiar, vertical direction that coarsens beautiful, blackmails young, and turns to phantoms those I move among.

Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

The Geniuses Among Us

 They take us by surprise, these tall perennials
that jut like hollyhocks above the canopy
of all the rest of us—bright testimonials
to the scale of human possibility.
They come to bloom for every generation, blazing with extraordinary notions from the taproots of imagination— dazzling us with incandescent visions.
And soon, the things we never thought would happen start to happen: the solid fences of reality begin to soften, crumbling into fables and romances— and we turn away from where we've been to a new place, where light is pouring in.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

The Blue Water Buffalo

 One in 250 Cambodians, or 40,000 people,
have lost a limb to a landmine.
—Newsfront, U.
Development Programme Communications Office On both sides of the screaming highway, the world is made of emerald silk—sumptuous bolts of it, stitched by threads of water into cushions that shimmer and float on the Mekong's munificent glut.
In between them plods the ancient buffalo—dark blue in the steamy distance, and legless where the surface of the ditch dissects the body from its waterlogged supports below or it might be a woman, up to her thighs in the lukewarm ooze, bending at the waist with the plain grace of habit, delving for weeds in water that receives her wrist and forearm as she feels for the alien stalk, the foreign blade beneath that greenest of green coverlets where brittle pods in their corroding skins now shift, waiting to salt the fields with horror.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem


 The children are back, the children are back—
They’ve come to take refuge, exhale and unpack;
The marriage has faltered, the job has gone bad,
Come open the door for them, Mother and Dad.
The city apartment is leaky and cold, The landlord lascivious, greedy and old— The mattress is lumpy, the oven’s encrusted, The freezer, the fan, and the toilet have rusted.
The company caved, the boss went broke, The job and the love-affair, all up in smoke.
The anguish of loneliness comes as a shock— O heart in the doldrums, O heart in hock.
And so they return with their piles of possessions, Their terrified cats and their mournful expressions Reclaiming the bedrooms they had in their teens, Clean towels, warm comforter, glass figurines.
Downstairs in the kitchen the father and mother Don’t say a word, but they look at each other As down the hill comes Jill, comes Jack.
The children are back.
The children are back.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Reverie with Fries

 Straight-spined girl—yes, you of the glinting earrings,
amber skin and sinuous hair: what happened?
you’ve no business lunching with sticky children
here at McDonald’s.
Are they yours? How old were you when you had them? You are far too dazzling to be their mother, though I hear them spluttering Mommy Mommy over the Muzak.
Do you plan to squander your precious twenties wiping ketchup dripping from little fingers, drowning your ennui in a Dr.
Pepper from the dispenser? Were I you for one schizophrenic moment, I’d display my pulchritude with a graceful yet dismissive wave to the gathered burghers feeding their faces— find myself a job as a super-model, get me to those Peloponnesian beaches where I’d preen all day with a jug of ouzo in my bikini.
Would I miss the gummy suburban vinyl, hanker for the Happiest Meal on Main Street? —Wouldn’t one spectacular shrug suffice for begging the question?

Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

At the End

 In another time, a linen winding sheet
would already have been drawn
about her, the funeral drums by now

would have throbbed their dull tattoo
into the shadows writhing 
behind the fire’s eye

while a likeness
of her narrow torso, carved
and studded with obsidian

might have been passed from hand
to hand and rubbed against the bellies
of women with child

and a twist of her gray hair
been dipped in oil
and set alight, releasing the essence

of her life’s elixir, pricking
the nostrils of her children
and her children’s children

whose amber faces nod and shine
like a ring of lanterns
strung around her final flare--

but instead, she lives in this white room
gnawing on a plastic bracelet
as she is emptied, filled and emptied.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

To the Mother of a Dead Marine

 Your boy once touched me, yes.
I knew you knew when your wet, reddened gaze drilled into me, groped through my clothes for signs, some residue of him—some lusciousness of mine that he had craved, that might have driven his desire for things perilous, poisonous, out-of-bounds.
Could I have been the beast he rode to war? The battle mounted in his sleep, the rounds of ammunition draped like unblown blossoms round his neck? Could I have somehow flung myself against the wall of his obsessions, leaving spells and curses on his tongue? Your fingers tighten, ready to engage the delicate hair-trigger of your rage.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Reading the Obituaries

 Now the Barbaras have begun to die,
trailing their older sisters to the grave,
the Helens, Margies, Nans—who said goodbye
just days ago, it seems, taking their leave 
a step or two behind the hooded girls 
who bloomed and withered with the century—
the Dorotheas, Eleanors and Pearls
now swaying on the edge of memory.
Soon, soon, the scythe will sweep for Jeanne and Angela, Patricia and Diane— pause, and return for Karen and Christine while Susan spends a sleepless night again.
Ah, Debra, how can you be growing old? Jennifer, Michelle, your hands are cold.
Written by Marilyn L Taylor | Create an image from this poem

For Lucy Who Came First

 She simply settled down in one piece right where she was,
    in the sand of a long-vanished lake edge or stream--and died.
—Donald C.
Johanson, paleoanthropologist When I put my hand up to my face I can trace her heavy jawbone and the sockets of her eyes under my skin.
And in the dark I sometimes feel her trying to uncurl from where she sank into mudbound sleep on that soft and temporary shore so staggeringly long ago, time had not yet cut its straight line through the tangle of the planet, nor taken up the measured sweep that stacks the days and seasons into an ordered past.
But I can feel her stirring in the core of me, trying to rise up from the deep hollow where she fell— wanting to prowl on long callused toes to see what made that shadow move, to face the creature in the dark thicket needing to know if this late-spreading dawn will bring handfuls of berries, black as blood, or the sting of snow, or the steady slap of sand and weed that wraps itself like fur around the body.