Arthur Atkins (Painter-Poet) Liverpool/ San Francisco

I love Liverpool but rarely get an opportunity to visit these days. Among many places of interest there is a wonderful little bookstore called News From Nowhere.

Only recently, I got chatting to a young Liverpudlian (in a pub, where else?) initially about the bookstore. He seemed genuinely interested in my poetry and was even familiar with some of my better known poems. However, he was even more interested to hear about Arthur Atkins, not least because he shares the same surname. While he thinks it is very unlikely that he is related to the painter, he promised to do a genealogy search and confirm.

Arthur Atkins is something of a romantic figure to me and one of my heroes, so much so that I dedicated Love And Human Remains - volume one of my poetry quartet of the same name - to him.

William Arthur Atkins - known as Arthur - was an English artist, raised in the Liverpool area. He studied art in Paris but never exhibited in Europe. His paintings were frequently on show in the San Francisco Bay area of California before his untimely death at the age of 25. One of a group of painter-poets responsible for an arts magazine called The Lark that was published in the San Francisco area during the late 19th century, this remarkable young man has long been an inspiration to me. His grave overlooks the same Piedmont hills he loved and painted, although now encroached upon by urban spread. A friend of mine in the US (also a painter) owns several of his paintings and has made contact with decendants of Arthur's immediate family.


ARTHUR ATKINS
(1873-1899)

Spirit of Liverpool, burning bright,
like autumn leaves in the glare of day;
Sombre, in twilight - kaleidoscope
eternal;
Candle holder, seeking here and there
all the naked eye cannot see;
Visions of the mind, across
infinity;
Braveheart, ventures to France, Italy,
exploring paths of creativity,
imploring the soul
a native anxiety;
Bursts upon a New World society
chasing gold tales. Let love, art
and poetry leave their
own trails;
To the landscape of a land
in its flowering youth - the lonely,
lively passion of a pilgrim
seeking truth;
Life, snuffed like a candle by Nature
left unmoved, even by devotion;
Persists, the subtle flame - of
a painter-poet's passion…

in each tawny leaf that falls, among
crowded Piedmont hills

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Broken Rainbow

Where ‘sorry’ means (sincerely) doing our best to make up for our mistakes, is it not high time certain socio-political-religious leaders across the world led by example? Even here in the West, there are those who, at best, pay lip service to gay issues. At worst, they continue to persecute us.

One of the reasons I think Antony Gormley’s One And Other ‘live sculpture’ on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square is such an inspired idea is that it will bring home the diverse nature of the United Kingdom in the 21st century. Who knows? It might even help to unite us, regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality. [For details: http://www.oneandother.co.uk// + a poem I wrote for the occasion that will appear in my next collection - On the Battlefields Of Love - next year].

Incidentally, I haven't been selected in the first draw to go on the plinth so fingers crossed for the next two draws. Whatever, 2,400 people will be privieged to participate in what will surely be the one of the finest examples of live art ever.


BROKEN RAINBOW

Under a broken rainbow,
tearful faces making their way
in this sorry world below

Find the seeds to sow
all those we’ve loved heard say
under a broken rainbow

Agreed, we’ve much to show
for packing prejudice on its way
in this sorry world below

By now, world leaders know
free speech needs to have its say
under a broken rainbow?

Areas (still) marked No-Go
for men and women who are gay
in this sorry world below

Where home truths fear to go,
political correctness has its way
under a broken rainbow
in this sorry world below

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

In Praise Of Lacework

We must seize the day. Even so, it is invariably inspiring as well as comforting to mull over happy memories. If yellow roses are for remembrance, we could do a lot worse than take our cue for day to day living from them…


IN PRAISE OF LACEWORK

Go where the wind blows
across time and space;
petals of a yellow rose

See how each cloud shows
this kind, that ugly face;
go where the wind blows

Be as the fallen seed grows
risen to beauty and grace;
petals of a yellow rose

Ask how Earth Mother sows
our dreams into winter lace;
go where the wind blows

Ghosts of a time that knows
and keeps safe its place;
petals of a yellow rose

Hear a lark in its last throes,
pass on its plea for peace;
go where the wind blows,
petals of a yellow rose…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009