Henry Splawn Taylor

Henry Splawn Taylor Poems

At times it is like watching a face you have just met,
trying to decide who it reminds you of—
no one, surely, whom you ever hated or loved,
but yes, somebody, somebody. You watch the face
...

I've made a little sluice-gate in the flow
of cash across the spreadsheet on my screen.
Amid torrential chaos and foreseen
disasters it maintains its small and slow
...

Thomas Warton
never met Dolly Parton.
...

Alexander Graham Bell
has shuffled off this mobile cell.
...

A drift of wind
when August wheeled
brought back to mind
an alfalfa field
...

Henry Splawn Taylor Biography

Henry Splawn Taylor (born June 21, 1942) is an American poet, author of more than 15 books of poems and winner of the 1986 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Taylor was born in Lincoln, Virginia, in rural Loudoun County, where he was raised as a Quaker. He went to high school at George School in Newtown, Pennsylvania. He graduated from the University of Virginia in 1965 and received his M.A. from Hollins University (formerly Hollins College) in 1966. He taught literature and co-directed the MFA program in creative writing at American University from 1971–2003. Taylor won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1986 for his book The Flying Change.)

The Best Poem Of Henry Splawn Taylor

The Way It Sometimes Is

At times it is like watching a face you have just met,
trying to decide who it reminds you of—
no one, surely, whom you ever hated or loved,
but yes, somebody, somebody. You watch the face

as it turns and nods, showing you, at certain angles,
a curve of the lips or a lift of the eyebrow
that is exactly right, and still the lost face
eludes you. Now this face is talking, and you hear

a sound in the voice, the accent on certain words—
yes! a phrase . . . you barely recall sitting outside,
by a pool or a campfire, remarking
a peculiar, recurring expression. Two syllables,

wasn't it? Doorknob? Bathroom? Shawcross? What the hell
kind of word is shawcross? A name; not the right one.
A couple of syllables that could possibly be
a little like something you may once have heard.

So the talk drifts, and you drift, sneaking glances,
pounding your brain. Days later a face occurs to you,
and yes, there is a resemblance. That odd word, though,
or phrase, is gone. It must have been somebody else.

Yes, it's like that, at times; something is, maybe;
and there are days when you can almost say what it is.

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