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Brian Taylor - Saint Louis, MO (USA):
April 02, 2001:
The Cuala Press published this book by a poet my father loved.
When my father gave it to me, he asked me not to
sell it in America. Today, my father died. The book–a pamphlet really–is
in a frail brown wrap, its pages uncut. I have been offered
thousands of dollars for it. I need to know how my father
would advise me now. I have yet to visit Venice.
This book on the floor by my bed contains five years of
dreams, the larvae of poems. It clicks and mutters sometimes; if I
open it, I had better be armed with a flame-thrower.
This book is a “salvatory of green mummy.” It stinks the place
out, but I not infrequently hold it to my lips and hope
for the best.
This book does not believe in self expression; indeed, it is virtually
With bonemeal fluttering from its pages, this book keeps flying back to
the ark. It refuses to give up. Poe’s raven and Flaubert’s parrot
will be mulch before land is sighted. I no longer look for
a rainbow in every pot of gold.