Words are dead

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

-Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest, (1212).

Thoughts? Is a word ever dead? I think not. Besides that, notice the capitals. Ignore rules and write how it is.

Cheers,

Matt

 

for the love of books

I love to read.

Yesterday I purchased two used books from a very used bookstore
Hemingway and Steinbeck

I lazily tossed both on top of a shelf in my office
Maybe I’ll read them at the same time

One cubby hole down sits Bukowski
which happens to be next to a few books that I’m published in

and on the floor, near my right foot, The Unabridged
Edgar Allan Poe. That’s literally the name of the book

In back of my chair is a box that I have yet to completely unpack
In the box are a number of books, books, books.

On my desk sits Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson
It’s impossible for my person to become bored

oh, and I just found Papa, A Personal Memoir written by
Gregory H. Hemingway, M.D. in back of the monitor

I could clean my office but the life would be sucked out of the
otherwise very empty room

I don’t think I’ll do that. Hell, I haven’t even mentioned what’s in the dry sink.

Personal space is a beautiful thing, if we let it be.

-M. Taggart

 

Emily Dickinson – The Brilliant

I finally opened the box. We recently moved and the box has been looking at me for long enough.

Strong Draughts of Their Refreshing Minds
To drink – enables Mine
Through Desert or the Wilderness
As bore it Sealed Wine-

To go elastic- Or as One
The Camel’s trait – attained –
How powerful the Stimulus
Of an Hermetic Mind-

Emily Dickinson

And there was Emily. In the box. This is the poem I opened the book to. In my opinion Emily’s writing is brilliant and what her poems do to stimulate my mind is unique.

Cheers,

Matt

 

Odd Walking Thoughts – Brilliant Emily

Emily Dickinson wrote a line that is currently stuck at the front of my thoughts. It’s as if the thought is a shape and it’ll not come out unless otherwise known to not have been; or to be? Either way it’s a shape. Possible ever changing. All about a thought and how words and thought don’t need to coexist every day. Don’t we though? Live on, please, and look outside your window, once again handing poems down to the children; having never been inside? I lived near your house, Emily. I don’t know that I didn’t feel your presence, but I do know that’s it’s possible. And my thoughts, with their words, thank you.

-M. Taggart

Emily D

book signing, question mark..

I was asked to do a book signing
in Kittery, Maine and in New Hampshire
near the lake region.

Now I’m sitting here smashing a beer
wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
I felt pure embarrassment when asked
to do something I’ve prayed for.
She even helped me with that-
to not feel embarrassed.
It was her book store and her idea.

It’s just one very short story.
Is THAT worth a book signing?
I’m nobody, who are you?
Thank you Emily, you are brilliant.
I’m a man who takes care of our son
every day, picks up toys, gets on
hands and knees to wash around
the toilet, and then finds cat vomit
in the cat dish. Wasn’t that nice of him.

I work during Gavin’s nap and I work
at night, to catch up on the work I couldn’t do
while I was cleaning, or picking up toys.
My days of flying around this country
Branding financial institutions are over.

Or, are they? I left that behind by choice.
Maybe I ought to do this. Sit in a book store
and talk with people who love to read and write.

Maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll bring whiskey.

-M. Taggart

 

Odd Walking Thoughts

I’m the type of guy that will stuff my brain inside as not to let it show. When push comes to shove I stand on a bloody face with my boot on a head reciting a poem mixed between Emily Dickinson and Charles Bukowski knowing no one will understand why I created blood. And fuck them all.

-M. Taggart

poem – why, are you.

Bukowski just called, told me he didn’t
want to talk and hung up.
Hemingway is in the barroom drinking
whiskey from a half gone bottle, cleaning
a rifle. Not caring who just called.
Vonnegut is on the porch smoking
cigarettes while looking at a dead
raccoon in the road and repeating, “so it goes.”
Steinbeck is petting Charlie in the living
room. Calm. Collected. Ready to go.
Emily is standing silently at the top of the stairs.
Frost is outside beckoning for everyone
to join him. It’s beginning to snow.
I’m sitting alone with my family wondering
who these people think they are.

-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
Thanks for reading

The good and the Grand

In my opinion Emily Dickinson is a female version of Edgar Allan Poe. Of which both I am a sincere fan. The dictionary is never far when I read their works.

A few lines from ‘The Sleeper’ -E.A. Poe ( Born Jan 19th 1809 – Died Oct 7 1849 )

‘In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin !
It was the dead who groaned within.’

***

A few lines from ‘Because I could not stop for Death’  – Emily Dickinson ( Born Dec 10 1830 – Died May 15 1847 )

‘Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –’

****

 

Cheers

Matt