Archive for September 2011

Poetry XIV: Inspiration   Leave a comment

Above:  Muses



The Lifeblood of the Artist,

The Food of the Creative Mind,

The Stuff of Poetry,



When I feel


I cannot help  but to

Follow its magical lead

To another masterpiece,

To another poem.


APRIL 18, 1991

Posted September 30, 2011 by neatnik2009 in Kenneth Randolph Taylor 1990s

“Puppy” Love   Leave a comment

A dying-living, living-dying,

A little truth, and lots of lying,

A little joy, a power of sighing,

And all is o’er;

And thus dissolves that wat’ry fetter,

They’re both deceived, so neither’s debtor,

And both are wiser, tho’ not better

Than before.


Posted September 26, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

On My Twenty-First Birth-Day   Leave a comment

Above:  Victorian Men

Why thus for naught have I been spared so long?

One so averse to right, so apt in wrong.

Where are those pleasures, and that lasting joy,

This age did promise when I was a boy?

Ah!  future still her phantom form is seen;

And still receding, as before ‘t has been.

Like to the rainbow’s form arched in the skies,

‘Tis near, it seems, but as we approach it flies.

So, pleasure unalloyed, seemed just ahead,

But as I sought the prize, alas!  ‘t had fled.

O!  goddess false, thy subtlety I know;

For where I thought most joy, I found most woe.

Experience sad against thy wiles advise;

For he, who seeks, seeks sorrow in disguise.


Posted September 25, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems

Tagged with

Lines (On Reading the Fate of William Woodson Hendree–The Poet Boy.)   2 comments


William Woodson Hendree (November 6, 1851-July 16, 1872), of Selma, Alabama, was the “Boy Poet of Selma.”  He seems to have made quite an impression on my great-grandfather, among others, but has become less well-known today than in the late 1800s.

Follow this link for an image of his grave:



That cruel fate which blights the flower

When it begins to bloom,

In gifted Hendree’s verdant hour

Has laid him in the tomb.


Come now, vain world, his lifeless mould

Can’t thrill to hear his fame,

His eyes are dim, his warm heart cold;

You now may laud his name.


He was a bard; his harp was strung

Upon the sacred hill;

And brief tho’ were the lays he sung,

He was a poet still.


And he has shared the poet’s lot;

A thorny path he trod;

And all the praises that he got,

Came to him ‘neath the sod.


Think kindly, friends; fools, do not laugh;

Tho’ he shunned fame’s caress,

‘Twas that his thirsty soul might quaff

The bliss of silentness.


That meditation might unfold

The realms of thought sublime;

In solitude to melt and mould

His spirits into rhyme.


Scarce were his heaven-born lays inspired

Than they were hushed forever;

Scarce were his youthful spirits fired

Than quenched in the Lethean river.


Why, cruel death, didst thou not take

One from the grosser throng?

And leave the “Poet Boy” to wake

And bless the world with song?


Of groveling minds and spirits mean

The world would glad be reft;

But, ah!  how oft the rose is ta’en

And thorns alone are left!


Yet still of Heaven we won’t complain;

But own its sovereign will;

The stream that’s dried, might, unto men,

Have born forever ill.


Tho’ dark and high the waves may flow,

God’s purpose freights the tide;

Tho’ cold the wintry winds may blow,

His blessings on them ride.


To a Young Lady for a Boquet   Leave a comment

Above:  A Bouquet of Flowers in a Vase

Words are useless, language vain,

Inexpressive every art,

Angels could not sound the strain

That would come forth from my heart.


When I look upon this token,

Which, I trust, bespeaks for me

Friendship that shall not be broken,

Then in spirit I’m with thee.


As I gaze into its face

Memory broods on scenes agone;

Then, in fancy, I can trace

Lineaments like to thine own.


And thy sweet angelic tone

Seems to fall upon mine ear,

Till, forgetting thou art gone,

Oft I think that thou are near.


And, tho’ leagues our hearts now sever,

This thought sweet indeed is found:

Separation never, never,

Can unbind hearts truly bound.


When sweet notes no more have rolled,

Echoes still repeat the strain;

When the censer’s fire grows cold,

Perfumes sweet there still remain.


Posted September 20, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

Tagged with ,

Loved in Vain   Leave a comment

Portrait of Jeanna Samary (1878), by Pierre-August Renoir

I have loved thee but in vain,

Thy heart’s given to another,

And we must now break in twain

Ties we vowed we would not sever.


Would to heaven I had not seen

Thee, so false and yet so fair,

Or that thou had only been

Half as true as thou did’st swear.


Tell me not in thy heart

None are cherished as am I,

For by many a crafty art

Hearts oft give to tongue the lie.


I have loved thee fond and true;

Dearer life was not to me

And no other wish I knew

Only to be loved by thee.


And I dearly love thee now,

Tho’ in silence it shall be.

For, alas! too well I know,

That thou carest not for me.


Love in peace then him thou will,

Now with hate my bosom’s fraught;

I will calmly bear the ill

That thy ruthless hand hath wrought.


Posted September 18, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

On A Petty Tyrant   1 comment

Here rotting lies

What all despise–

A petty tyrant’s clay.

But thanks to Heaven,

There was not given

To him a monarch’s sway.


Let no one doubt

He was without

A lofty aspiration,

For, if he could,

I’m sure he would

Have seized his Maker’s station.


Posted September 15, 2011 by neatnik2009 in Death and/or Grief, John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems

Tagged with

Love’s Requital   Leave a comment

Above:  Half Dome, Yosemite National Park


NOTE–It might be interesting to my readers, as well as justice to myself, to state that this is my first attempt at poetical composition.–T


Bleak, bleak is the heart that so faithless could be,

O!  Arden, thy hills no sooner I’d shun,

O!  vilest of serpents, I’d quicker clasp thee

Than again give my heart to so fickle a one.


I welcome whatever is fated my part,

Misfortune I hail, if she is to be mine,

But at thoughts of a love as fleeting I start

And shrink from a heart so hard to define.


Oh! how could a heart but a heart made of granite,

All blackened and stained in crime’s slimy pit,

Repulse such a stream of love lavished on it,

And ignore a heart beating so truly for it?


The sun never moved more free from all ranging

Than my heart in its innocence clung unto thee;

The moon never was more false and more changing

Than thou hast proven thyself unto me.


The love I have known my tongue cannot tell,

To a grave I’l consign it, let it be unexpressed;

For to tell it to thee were only to swell

The stream of a fiendish joy in thy breast.


My tenderest feelings thou hast wronged without measure;

Thou has trampled on vows, broken ties the most near;

Thy cruel heart even has throbbed with a pleasure,

At beholding his sorrows who loved thee most dear.


I confess that with regret I have loved thee sincerely;

It was thou that first kindled love’s ravaging fire:

All I hoped for and all I wished was merely

Thy love; ’twas my fondest my sweetest desire.


But I’ve broke thy cursed bonds, and now I am free

From the fangs that pierced my sorrowing breast;

And tho’ while I live I cannot forgive thee,

I’ll always consider our parting was best.


Farewell, frozen heart, farewell, heart of stone,

May the thoughts of thy deed never cause thee a pain;

Sweet then was the song, but the bright bird has flown,

And my ear is now dull to the once pleasing strain.


Erase thou my name from mem’ry’s black page,

Let none of my deeds again appear there,

Till thy lovely cheeks are furrowed by age,

Till the chill frosts of time have bitten thy hair.


When thy mind shall be tired with roaming the past,

And has drunk of its pleasures and joys till filled,

On the grave of a friendship then it may rest,

Which thine own hand in cruelty killed.


Posted September 10, 2011 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

Epitaph On a Glutton   1 comment

The Gluttony Section from The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things (Circa 1500), by Hieronymus Bosch

Let all people know

That he who’s below,

Sleeping peacefully under this mound,

Could eat up more stuff,

And not have enough,

Than any ever put in the ground.


On a Bigot   1 comment

Classified Advertisements from The New York Times, 1854:  “No Irish Need Apply”

Earth, in thy bosom here enclosed,

Is what is left of Jim;

Had he been large as he supposed,

Then thou would be in him.