Eden On The Edge

All Content Copyright, Natalie Taylor 2014, All Rights Reserved

Humanities in the Wild: Stargazing

Humanities in the Wild: Stargazing

Saturday, May 15 at 7:00 p.m. on Zoom

Register here: https://zoom.us/…/tJEscuyupj8oGtYQPHixpNANE5CRq2tc3T7h

Over the moon (pun intended) to be reading some of my moon poems at this heavenly event hosted by the Utah Humanities. Want to decode the night sky? Identify constellations? Be at the right place to see a meteor shower?

Join us for an evening dedicated to the night sky, celestial bodies and all the stars that burn brightly. Read the official event description

Butterfly iris




Delighted to have my poem “Butterfly iris” included in SWWIM‘s very cool  Poetry in Bloom project.
They post a poem a day for the month of April to celebrate National Poetry Month and the floral-themed poems
are folded into origami and included in floral bouquets delivered by a local florist in Miami.
Visit their site for more details and listen to audio recordings of all the other poems they’ve posted.
So honored to see this one find its wings. Thanks to the folks at SWWIM for including me.

Hunger Mountain

After spending so much of my life wandering in the mountains, I’m thrilled that two poems inspired by the forests near my home found their way to Hunger Mountain. Read “A narrow path quieting” and “Acceptance: a new stage of grief” in the Spring 2021, Art Saves, Issue 25.

Currency of survival

2020 has been a year of upheaval and loss. I spent more of it sobbing in the fetal position than I’d care to admit. But that’s what makes bright spots like this shine even brighter. It is with deep humility and gratitude that I share this bit of light: my waffle poem found a (really) good home. Thanks to the folks at New Ohio Review for including “Currency of survival” in issue 28.

Reading at Weller Book Works

Weller Book Works

 

Thrilled to be reading with my dear friend Sunni Wilkinson in support of her fabulous new book. Come join us if you are so inclined.

Tuesday, February 11
6:30-7:30 p.m.
Weller Book Works
607 Trolley Square
Salt Lake City, Utah 84102

 

 

 

 

From a great height

IMG_1892

Published in New Ohio Review, Issue 26, Autumn 2019

Listen

Read the rest of this entry »

Water Witch

Hey party peeps, I’ll be reading at the Water Witch this Monday night, followed by a riveting open mic.

Come join us for my two favorite things — poetry and wine  — and bring your own poems to share.

 

March 11, 2019

7 p.m.

163 W. 900 South

Salt Lake City, Utah 84101

Hubbub

Hubbub cover regular

 

Thrilled to have two poems included in this issue of Hubbub. Read the rest of this entry »

You don’t need shoes. You’re not that kind of man.

My mother was a fish. I worship moss

without words.

Your mother was a horse. You need to get

it done.

 

The bridge is out, the eye inquires. I don’t

advise it.

Will the horse and cart cross the river in

heavy rains?

 

When hoof meets scale, water froths like silver fish

in boiling

liquid and stallion grunts heavy against a

wild river,

 

growing wilder as it grows older. Stump collides

with flank.

What can breathe in water and what cannot.

What floats.

 

What sinks. What is lost in deeds and depth.

You lie

like a fish lies in silt natural as

a bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published in Hubbub, Volume 33, 2019

Eightmile spring

Looking for wild horses in the west

desert, I found a spring instead.

Fresh water babble rising over menacing

desolation. The only sign of humans:

gnarled wire and the sagging fenceposts of an

abandoned pasture. Years ago,

my sisters and I saw a badger here.

Horned larks fuss as my dog lopes

through yellowed sage. Distant boom. Hunting season.

If my daughters answer at all, they say yes, no.

I told the man he had been careless with my heart.

He told me he thinks of me all the time.

It is not the same thing.

My thirst for solitude,

gorgeous despair and the vast emptiness

of blue, blue, blue, over browns.

Some small sound that I think

might be a hoof, the beginning of a herd —

a stone shifting under the roots of dried thistle.

Deep chill warmed by late October sun.

I eat hard-boiled eggs, salted and peppered,

wash them down with water.

I came here to see the musculature of untamed instinct:

a mare nuzzle a wobbly foal

a stallion herd the slowest straggler

a band of dun and bay, black and white.

I wanted, perhaps, the clamor of family.

Or some echo of it.

Natural order demonstrated

in feral whinnies. An understanding

that survival depended on staying together.

Instead, this strange trickle in the arid

landscape, the stubborn greening of watercress

amidst rusted pipes and bullet casings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published in Hubbub, Volume 33, 2019