By Henry Taylor
In Henry Taylor's 1986 Pulitzer Prize-winning selection of poetry, The Flying switch, he writes the poems of a rustic squire -- immersing himself within the great thing about the Blue Ridge mountains, pleasures for which a true farmer has neither the time or inclination. An anti-modernist in pursuit of states of grace, Taylor revels in things like a "frisbee floating like milkweed," women's palms and "the fascinating outdated songs of their illegible syllables." His affection for his sector is devoted and unmixed, and produces candy kind in his reasonable pastoral.
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Extra info for The Flying Change: Poems
Sample text
But then some gesture of the wind, a falling log in the fire, a drift of fog across the windowpane, breathes toward some old refrain we once had thought to speak. Plainly the forest wakes; now in the windowpane flash quick reflections of light birds; a small wind sifts among the trees and lifts the undersides of leaves. Imagined air unweaves our losses and dissolves ourselves into ourselves, scatters us into leaves, Page 47 and you and I become whatever words we may have come so far to say. Page 48 Green Springs the Tree My young son lurches halfway down the stair or shrieks and totters midway through a climb from the wobbling bookcase to the rocking chair.
I made the turn and drove on, remembering that I have done this same thing at this same place perhaps a hundred times in my life, and that the house has been there longer than anyone now alive. It still surprises me, being there like that, and for a little while after I pass it I wonder how they live there. Each night, headlights blaze at the windows, making furious shadows rake the walls; tires cry on the curve, recover, and roll on, and everyone breathes easy again. Or else they have been there a long time, and nothing has happened; over the years they have forgotten that every night their being there makes someone sweat and wrestle the wheel; the lights, and the shadows they cast on the walls, have come to mean the same thing, always.
I hold myself immobile in bright air, sustained in time astride the flying change. C. In the garden in high summer as the sun dropped, I worked my hoe in short scythe-swings until one stroke turned a pebble I stopped to pick up. I stood pinching it, thumbing off earth crumbs; this has happened before, but not to me. In the days when men plowed the fields behind horses, sunup to sundown watching the furrow open up and lie over, three paces ahead of their feet, there was time to reach down midstride and pocket a recognized stone.