Review by James H Duncan
William Taylor Jr. is writing from the place I want to be. In The Blood of a Tourist, Mr. Taylor is constructing an idyllic world of “little rooms with little windows looking out upon the rain,” or lounging along the sidewalks of 1935Paris , glass
of wine in hand, words in heart, soon to be on the page. These are the poems of
a wistful writer displaying an easy smoothness, a poet who isn’t trying so damn hard to be a poet. 9A trait hard to find in the poetry world.) The poems ease the reader from line to line, page to page. They’re immensely
readable while retaining the ability to transport and assimilate the writer’s
visions with the reader’s dreams, back and forth, the poems making us the same.
William Taylor Jr. is writing from the place I want to be. In The Blood of a Tourist, Mr. Taylor is constructing an idyllic world of “little rooms with little windows looking out upon the rain,” or lounging along the sidewalks of 1935
As I said, these are poems written from a place I want to be
and written about themes I can connect with, the quiet terror of having to live
a life unwelcomed, one in which we hide the pain of existence inside and ignore
it while basking in the glow of singing shows on TV and reheated dinners for
lunch in the office’s filthy microwave, a nearly inescapable fate. But we artists
do dream of this escape, and some of us get there. These poems feel like proof
of that possibility, like witnessing someone dodge a sniper’s bullet.
No comments:
Post a Comment