by Kent Taylor. 2005. Alan Horvath, Kirpin Press, P. O. Box 2943 Vancouver, WA 98668-2943. Write for price.
Book Review by Michael Basinski
Kent Taylor. Poet. Originally from Cleveland, and that band of poets pulling the loose yarn from the tweed coats and pale sweaters of the academic elites until those sweaters and tweeds unraveled and left poetry naked and howling happy and wet and dripping in the warm streets of poetic Cleveland joy 1960s, levy, Renegade and Black Rabbit poetry challenging the cops; the cops they were afraid. Well. Wow. This is poetry we needed then and bleed now for give us this poetry again. Oh Poet. And that is Kent Taylor, his tap-root of poems runs into that stream. Here, he is - still - still at it. Forty year later! Yeah. Here he is in these hand full of poems that still pull and they finding that space between people and senses and day and night, that seam where poetic clarity occurs, the sight happens, where the person, Kent Taylor, becomes the poet Kent Taylor walking that tender line poetic mind working picking up the shards of poetry and reflecting with intensity into what are for the poet - particular instances, moments, seconds, instances, in which there is poetry plucked and brought to the day surface for us all, all of us on it we feast.