Monday, December 28, 2020 - From our poetry archives: Mervyn Taylor’s “Things I Can’t Throw Away,” from Issue No. 2 - Autumn 2017.

There are two times of the year when I love Mervyn Taylor’s poem, “Things I Can’t Throw Away,” the most. The first is in the late spring, when the weather is getting warmer and the first embers of summer air can be felt, which brings forth the natural impulse of spring cleaning –––– throwing out the old and thus, making room for the new.

The other time of the year is around this week (between Christmas and New Years), as well as over the next few weeks –––– after the excitement leading up to Christmas has elapsed, and before the speed and activity of a new year have returned once more.

I love the poem for its intricate detailed descriptions of the items that Taylor considers throwing away; for instance: “The key my daughter made / with my initials her first stay at sleepaway camp.” And also for its forthright approach to describing one facet of New Yorkers’ relationships with their living spaces: our apartments only have so much room; and we can’t keep everything forever. Even so, we can and often do end up keep things around for a while –––– and in echoing Taylor’s poem, that “a while” often becomes a lot longer than we’ve ever planned. Enjoy Taylor’s poem below; and also note, his newest collection of poems, Country of Warm Snow, was released earlier this year, and is available for purchase through his website.

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THINGS I CAN’T THROW AWAY
Mervyn Taylor

Like the garlanded Buddha,
a gift from a fortune-telling mom
who came to class on parents’ night.

The key my daughter made
with my initials her first stay
at sleepaway camp.

The red shoes with elastic across
the instep that pained like the dickens
after a few hours’ wearing.

A diseased plant that refuses to die,
or get well. It sits in a quarantined
corner of the kitchen.

Cards from a mysterious ‘Fifi,’
signed with puckered lips, whose
husband has since passed away.

A Jet centerfold, featuring
an old girlfriend on board a yacht,
somewhere in the Bahamas. And

a simultaneous painting, ripped
across a cloudy moon, done by
four stoned artists around a table.

Twice a year, I declare these things
dead, junk, clutter. I line them up
by the door. Then they beg, and I

put them back, the house squaring
itself and sighing, my new loves
finding space among the old.