http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
Someone recently commented that, at 65 (in December) I look in pretty good shape if a bit frayed at the edges. My excuse for the latter is that I’m getting old(er).
I look around and ask myself, does the modern world have that same excuse?
EPITAPH FOR A ROSE
Amongst litter in the gutter, rose petals
frayed at the edges;
in acid raindrops making holes in the sky,
dreams absconding wherever…
anonymous footprints, marking out tracks
well travelled;
clothes, bright and dull, offering sanctuary
to troubled souls;
backs of balding heads telling fairy stories
of halcyon days
(were they to turn, what meeting of minds
before eyes averted?)
Reflections in shop windows passing us by
like kerb crawlers;
a toy gun sounds off a warning shot about
turning into dead ends
A deaf person signing to us has more to say
than we who can’t hear;
a blind person’s white stick, intently probing
our anxieties;
banks of cloud rolling away to let the sun in
on a street’s secrets;
Apollo’s kiss on parted lips, a taste of history
repeating itself;
a rumble of passing thunder in the distance
suggests a battle over;
rose petals, but litter in the gutter of a world
fraying at the edges
[From: On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]
Monday, 29 November 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Heart To Heart
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Several readers have said they have been unable to access my efforts on You Tube.
I can only suggest you try: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Or...one reader suggests key wording: ‘You Tube Hampstead Heath poetry reading Roger Taber’ - then clicking on ‘all’ to access our efforts so far; more to follow as and when Graham and I have time and the weather is kind and/ or we can find a way to film indoors and get the lighting right! I should add that Graham (my close friend and cameraman) and I are still on a learning curve!
Someone recently asked me why I bother since I am ‘never likely to take You Tube by storm.’ (Do I care?) It’s fun and that, like one of my favourite people, Ann Widdecombe, is what I have decided my retirement will be about... having fun. Oh, no, I have never met Ann Widdecombe but have always respected her as a politician and think her decision to go for having some fun in retirement - as on the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing - is a shining example to us all. The lady has completely re-invented herself. She has to be an inspiration to any retired person resigned to being a couch potato!
Meanwhile...
Most of us at some time in our lives have a problem with other people that, unless we put to it them, has the potential to ruin a relationship. How many of us, too, have secrets that are hard to bear? [For sure, it’s not only gay men and women who, for whatever reason, feel unable to be openly gay.]
Mind you, tackling someone about issues that concern them can be frustrating to say the least since so many people can’t or won’t talk things through, especially if it means they have to deal with even the slightest criticism. I have given up on various relatives and friends for this very reason. I put up with so much for so long and did try to get them to talk things through but it was a lost cause. Oh, I dare say they see me as completely to blame but...that’s life.
Is there something or someone preying on your mind? A heart to heart can work wonders. [Did I say it would be easy?]
HEART TO HEART
I told family and friends
how, come what may,
it makes no difference
I’m gay
I am the same person,
sharing with you still
a heartfelt conviction
love is all
If love but pre-conditional
where does that leave us,
supposedly more spiritual
than beasts?
Let those without a dream
cast the first stone
Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2010
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in first editions of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Several readers have said they have been unable to access my efforts on You Tube.
I can only suggest you try: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Or...one reader suggests key wording: ‘You Tube Hampstead Heath poetry reading Roger Taber’ - then clicking on ‘all’ to access our efforts so far; more to follow as and when Graham and I have time and the weather is kind and/ or we can find a way to film indoors and get the lighting right! I should add that Graham (my close friend and cameraman) and I are still on a learning curve!
Someone recently asked me why I bother since I am ‘never likely to take You Tube by storm.’ (Do I care?) It’s fun and that, like one of my favourite people, Ann Widdecombe, is what I have decided my retirement will be about... having fun. Oh, no, I have never met Ann Widdecombe but have always respected her as a politician and think her decision to go for having some fun in retirement - as on the BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing - is a shining example to us all. The lady has completely re-invented herself. She has to be an inspiration to any retired person resigned to being a couch potato!
Meanwhile...
Most of us at some time in our lives have a problem with other people that, unless we put to it them, has the potential to ruin a relationship. How many of us, too, have secrets that are hard to bear? [For sure, it’s not only gay men and women who, for whatever reason, feel unable to be openly gay.]
Mind you, tackling someone about issues that concern them can be frustrating to say the least since so many people can’t or won’t talk things through, especially if it means they have to deal with even the slightest criticism. I have given up on various relatives and friends for this very reason. I put up with so much for so long and did try to get them to talk things through but it was a lost cause. Oh, I dare say they see me as completely to blame but...that’s life.
Is there something or someone preying on your mind? A heart to heart can work wonders. [Did I say it would be easy?]
HEART TO HEART
I told family and friends
how, come what may,
it makes no difference
I’m gay
I am the same person,
sharing with you still
a heartfelt conviction
love is all
If love but pre-conditional
where does that leave us,
supposedly more spiritual
than beasts?
Let those without a dream
cast the first stone
Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2010
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in first editions of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Saturday, 27 November 2010
Heart Of Darkness
http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T
Sometimes I look at a poem years later and am well pleased. At other times, I despair that it has not achieved anything like what I intended although it must have appeared so at the time or I would never have published it. [The original has also been published elsewhere, besides my collection, so it wasn’t a bad poem.]
As I re-enter the poem from a different angle, one I could not access the first time around, for whatever reason, it will often assume new dimensions; such is the case with today’s poem.
Oh, and yes, I have taken the title from Joseph Conrad’s wonderful novel.
HEART OF DARKNESS
Eyes glowing in a premature darkness
like cat’s eyes on a loping highway in a storm,
padding its way with stealth and guile,
brushing giant leaf and fern in Brobdingnag;
concrete jungle spread all around;
wings of steel pitted against natural instinct;
dirt tracks strewn with primeval litter,
secret paths to Earth Mother’s hand written
poetry and prose
Hear the lion roar, rearing and pawing
at the sky, unbowed by heaven’s wary eye;
flashes like daggers at Caesar’s back,
taking the Beast through its paces till it drops;
apes swinging here and there, eager
to mock a weary lion but taking care to steer
well clear; no confrontation
else a feast of claws devour even salvation,
torn pages of Darwin
Ah, but let the Beast rest while it may.
Hunters and hunted will find each other out
soon enough, about to discover
whether any moon creature can match us
eye for eye, tooth for tooth,
and to whom the wind shall read a eulogy
where darkest poetry and prose read
and old gods laughing for our inability
to understand a word
Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010
[Note: This poem has been all but completely rewritten from the original version as it appears in 1st eds. of The Third Eye: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Sometimes I look at a poem years later and am well pleased. At other times, I despair that it has not achieved anything like what I intended although it must have appeared so at the time or I would never have published it. [The original has also been published elsewhere, besides my collection, so it wasn’t a bad poem.]
As I re-enter the poem from a different angle, one I could not access the first time around, for whatever reason, it will often assume new dimensions; such is the case with today’s poem.
Oh, and yes, I have taken the title from Joseph Conrad’s wonderful novel.
HEART OF DARKNESS
Eyes glowing in a premature darkness
like cat’s eyes on a loping highway in a storm,
padding its way with stealth and guile,
brushing giant leaf and fern in Brobdingnag;
concrete jungle spread all around;
wings of steel pitted against natural instinct;
dirt tracks strewn with primeval litter,
secret paths to Earth Mother’s hand written
poetry and prose
Hear the lion roar, rearing and pawing
at the sky, unbowed by heaven’s wary eye;
flashes like daggers at Caesar’s back,
taking the Beast through its paces till it drops;
apes swinging here and there, eager
to mock a weary lion but taking care to steer
well clear; no confrontation
else a feast of claws devour even salvation,
torn pages of Darwin
Ah, but let the Beast rest while it may.
Hunters and hunted will find each other out
soon enough, about to discover
whether any moon creature can match us
eye for eye, tooth for tooth,
and to whom the wind shall read a eulogy
where darkest poetry and prose read
and old gods laughing for our inability
to understand a word
Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010
[Note: This poem has been all but completely rewritten from the original version as it appears in 1st eds. of The Third Eye: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Friday, 26 November 2010
Love In A Mist
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
The UK has just had its first snowfall of the winter and the weather forecast is more to come. B-rrrr.
Ah, but nothing keeps us warmer all year round than love though sometimes it finds us wrapped in a mist of tears for wishful thinking...
LOVE IN A MIST
Even the sun took time to cry
as we parted, you and I,
not knowing if we’d ever meet again,
barely seeing for a misty rain
We swore to write every day,
be true, come what may
though a fear we wouldn’t meet again
chilling us, like a misty rain
I watched you go, saw you turn,
felt blown kisses start to burn
a hole in my heart where you had been,
now gone in a misty rain
The sun stayed behind a cloud
as I named my love aloud,
leaving a summer wind to bear my pain
on the wings of a misty rain
Autumn passed and winter too
yet I heard no word from you,
despairingly. let all but one hope wane
as I strolled in a misty rain
Suddenly, the sun reappeared
from behind a grieving cloud;
there we were, we dead flowers reborn
in the sweetest of spring rain!
We heard birds sing out that day
for lovers, straight and gay,
echoes of Earth Mother’s eternal refrain
though, at times, a misty rain
Copyright R. N. Taber 2008
[Note: This poem does not appear in my collections but I will include it in my next book Tracking The Torchbearer scheduled for publication in 2012]
The UK has just had its first snowfall of the winter and the weather forecast is more to come. B-rrrr.
Ah, but nothing keeps us warmer all year round than love though sometimes it finds us wrapped in a mist of tears for wishful thinking...
LOVE IN A MIST
Even the sun took time to cry
as we parted, you and I,
not knowing if we’d ever meet again,
barely seeing for a misty rain
We swore to write every day,
be true, come what may
though a fear we wouldn’t meet again
chilling us, like a misty rain
I watched you go, saw you turn,
felt blown kisses start to burn
a hole in my heart where you had been,
now gone in a misty rain
The sun stayed behind a cloud
as I named my love aloud,
leaving a summer wind to bear my pain
on the wings of a misty rain
Autumn passed and winter too
yet I heard no word from you,
despairingly. let all but one hope wane
as I strolled in a misty rain
Suddenly, the sun reappeared
from behind a grieving cloud;
there we were, we dead flowers reborn
in the sweetest of spring rain!
We heard birds sing out that day
for lovers, straight and gay,
echoes of Earth Mother’s eternal refrain
though, at times, a misty rain
Copyright R. N. Taber 2008
[Note: This poem does not appear in my collections but I will include it in my next book Tracking The Torchbearer scheduled for publication in 2012]
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Classroom Politics
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I will be 65 next month. I often see or hear people of my own generation brushing aside the views and opinions of young people. It is both unfair and unwise. Do we always know best? I don't think so. Moreover, the future of world and planet lie in their hands, not ours. We will be long gone by the time they are left to clear up our mess.
CLASSROOM POLITICS
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
Stuck in front of a television,
well able to tell fact from
fiction, problem being
where to draw the line between
what we need to see, over
endless cups of tea - and reject
whenever we suspect
our pleasure a shade
unhealthy?
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
Made to sit back and watch
our planet being set upon;
an indifference to Nature
but for a public relations
exercise - put on by fat cats
exploiting media attention,
all the better to disguise
a hidden agenda - of
mass destruction
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]
I will be 65 next month. I often see or hear people of my own generation brushing aside the views and opinions of young people. It is both unfair and unwise. Do we always know best? I don't think so. Moreover, the future of world and planet lie in their hands, not ours. We will be long gone by the time they are left to clear up our mess.
CLASSROOM POLITICS
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
Stuck in front of a television,
well able to tell fact from
fiction, problem being
where to draw the line between
what we need to see, over
endless cups of tea - and reject
whenever we suspect
our pleasure a shade
unhealthy?
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
Made to sit back and watch
our planet being set upon;
an indifference to Nature
but for a public relations
exercise - put on by fat cats
exploiting media attention,
all the better to disguise
a hidden agenda - of
mass destruction
Murmurs in the classroom
smack of revolution
[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Know The Voice, Can't Place The Face
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=R+N+Taber&x=17&y=13
I look around and sometimes wonder...if we can’t keep faith with each other, what hope for our keeping faith with ourselves? Whatever, it is down to us, no one else.
We may blame fate, our therapist, even God...but when push comes to shove there is no lasting escape from our having to take responsibility for our own choices. Nor are we entirely to blame for making wrong choices. We are as we are. No one (thank goodness) is perfect.
This poem is a kenning.
KNOW THE VOICE, CAN’T PLACE THE FACE
Come, child,
where I lead, don’t be afraid;
listen to the murmurings
of your heart, exercise the finer
leanings of your mind;
start to care, understand why
I, too, am always here
for you, trying to be fair,
even kind
See, child,
where I walk and let’s talk,
you and I, exchange
home truths before they fester
and die in the bowels
of a soul bent on proving
its very existence - by
token resistance to temporal
magnificence
Hear, child,
any wise words of your own;
feel free to ignore mine
if you suspect they threaten
your ivory tower
of pretension, no protection
against a world its own
worst enemy for a divided
humanity
Part godly, part devilry,
call me Destiny
[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in first editions of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
I look around and sometimes wonder...if we can’t keep faith with each other, what hope for our keeping faith with ourselves? Whatever, it is down to us, no one else.
We may blame fate, our therapist, even God...but when push comes to shove there is no lasting escape from our having to take responsibility for our own choices. Nor are we entirely to blame for making wrong choices. We are as we are. No one (thank goodness) is perfect.
This poem is a kenning.
KNOW THE VOICE, CAN’T PLACE THE FACE
Come, child,
where I lead, don’t be afraid;
listen to the murmurings
of your heart, exercise the finer
leanings of your mind;
start to care, understand why
I, too, am always here
for you, trying to be fair,
even kind
See, child,
where I walk and let’s talk,
you and I, exchange
home truths before they fester
and die in the bowels
of a soul bent on proving
its very existence - by
token resistance to temporal
magnificence
Hear, child,
any wise words of your own;
feel free to ignore mine
if you suspect they threaten
your ivory tower
of pretension, no protection
against a world its own
worst enemy for a divided
humanity
Part godly, part devilry,
call me Destiny
[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in first editions of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
In A Word
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
As I have said many times, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality nor do Holy Books have the last word in what we mean by ‘God’. Each to their own, I say. Me, I found spirituality in nature. As for my finding God there too...who knows?
This poem last appeared on the blog in 2008. Sharon, Amber and Louise have asled me to repeat it today on which they all share a birthday. Happy Birthday, folks. Enjoy!
IN A WORD
Lord, I know not who
or what you are or where you be,
yet I feel a Presence here,
in the very heart of me
and a Spirit as much a part
of me as the sun by day
and moon by night, shedding
heavenly light upon a world
that knows precious little for sure,
where darkness would grip
the very soul...
were Someone not here,
there, everywhere...
to urge us on to better things
and better ways than else
we'd know without a Light
to show
Lord, Word, whisperings
in the ear (and none so deaf
that will not hear)
let us shed the shackles of history,
exchange our chains for a joining
of hands in Peace and Love defying
colour, creed or other division
On earth, as it is in heaven
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
As I have said many times, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality nor do Holy Books have the last word in what we mean by ‘God’. Each to their own, I say. Me, I found spirituality in nature. As for my finding God there too...who knows?
This poem last appeared on the blog in 2008. Sharon, Amber and Louise have asled me to repeat it today on which they all share a birthday. Happy Birthday, folks. Enjoy!
IN A WORD
Lord, I know not who
or what you are or where you be,
yet I feel a Presence here,
in the very heart of me
and a Spirit as much a part
of me as the sun by day
and moon by night, shedding
heavenly light upon a world
that knows precious little for sure,
where darkness would grip
the very soul...
were Someone not here,
there, everywhere...
to urge us on to better things
and better ways than else
we'd know without a Light
to show
Lord, Word, whisperings
in the ear (and none so deaf
that will not hear)
let us shed the shackles of history,
exchange our chains for a joining
of hands in Peace and Love defying
colour, creed or other division
On earth, as it is in heaven
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Sunday, 21 November 2010
God's Metaphor
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
[Note: This post is duplicated on my other blog today.]
Some of you have asked me to let you know about my latest You Tube caper if only because it can be interesting to hear poets reading their own poems. My close friend and cameraman Graham and I have a lot of fun recording although we are still on a learning curve. Filming outdoors has many distractions, not least the weather. Light can be a problem (I couldn't afford a better camcorder) as you can see from our one attempt (so far) to film indoors. We need to experiment more indoors. You can see and hear our lastest efforts (yesterday) at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrHBwuhAVww
Meanwhile...
As regular readers will know only too well by now, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality but find it in nature, not religion. At the same time, I am often accused of hypocrisy because I use religious metaphor in many of my poems.
For me, passages in Holy Books are metaphors for humanity, its foibles and its strengths.
Raised a Christian, I cannot take the Bible literally but find much food for thought in it and poetry to enjoy. I admire the historical Jesus as a man ahead of his time who spoke good sense and encouraged the kind of open mind and heart that many so-called Christians today would do well to follow. I cannot carry my sentiments further. Even so, we can all do worse than look at and abide by much of what the various founders of the world’s religions had to say. So, yes, I often use religious metaphor in my poetry and I don’t consider this makes be a hypocrite.
This poem first appeared on the blog in 2008 and is posted again today especially for ‘Julie M’ who contacted me to say that she too ‘turned to nature for spiritual strength and reassurance after my religion failed me, a lesbian, when I needed it most.'
This poem is a villanelle.
GOD’S METAPHOR
Passive spectators to war,
the last tree left standing evergreen;
God’s metaphor
Like Adam tested before,
by the world’s dark intentions unseen,
passive spectators to war
Eve called out for a whore
by the likes of whom we’ve never seen;
God’s metaphor
Lights at the kitchen door
hinting at a feast for the television screen,
passive spectators to war
Snakes in the grass and more
leaving trails to ambition’s lust obscene;
God’s metaphor
Dare we who know the score
let one coin outshine a leaf’s dawn sheen?
Passive spectators to war…
God’s metaphor
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]
[Note: This post is duplicated on my other blog today.]
Some of you have asked me to let you know about my latest You Tube caper if only because it can be interesting to hear poets reading their own poems. My close friend and cameraman Graham and I have a lot of fun recording although we are still on a learning curve. Filming outdoors has many distractions, not least the weather. Light can be a problem (I couldn't afford a better camcorder) as you can see from our one attempt (so far) to film indoors. We need to experiment more indoors. You can see and hear our lastest efforts (yesterday) at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrHBwuhAVww
Meanwhile...
As regular readers will know only too well by now, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality but find it in nature, not religion. At the same time, I am often accused of hypocrisy because I use religious metaphor in many of my poems.
For me, passages in Holy Books are metaphors for humanity, its foibles and its strengths.
Raised a Christian, I cannot take the Bible literally but find much food for thought in it and poetry to enjoy. I admire the historical Jesus as a man ahead of his time who spoke good sense and encouraged the kind of open mind and heart that many so-called Christians today would do well to follow. I cannot carry my sentiments further. Even so, we can all do worse than look at and abide by much of what the various founders of the world’s religions had to say. So, yes, I often use religious metaphor in my poetry and I don’t consider this makes be a hypocrite.
This poem first appeared on the blog in 2008 and is posted again today especially for ‘Julie M’ who contacted me to say that she too ‘turned to nature for spiritual strength and reassurance after my religion failed me, a lesbian, when I needed it most.'
This poem is a villanelle.
GOD’S METAPHOR
Passive spectators to war,
the last tree left standing evergreen;
God’s metaphor
Like Adam tested before,
by the world’s dark intentions unseen,
passive spectators to war
Eve called out for a whore
by the likes of whom we’ve never seen;
God’s metaphor
Lights at the kitchen door
hinting at a feast for the television screen,
passive spectators to war
Snakes in the grass and more
leaving trails to ambition’s lust obscene;
God’s metaphor
Dare we who know the score
let one coin outshine a leaf’s dawn sheen?
Passive spectators to war…
God’s metaphor
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]
Saturday, 20 November 2010
On The Face Of Whom I Love
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Today’s poem appeared on the blog in July 2009 and is repeated today especially for ‘Megan and Christopher’ who celebrate their first wedding anniversary today.
Happy anniversary!
It may not be all that makes the world go round but at least love keeps it (and us) from going pear shaped.
ON THE FACE OF WHOM I LOVE
On the face of whom I love, a sweet light
reminding of gay flowers come springtime,
blue hyacinths, red tulips, lilies white,
where rabbits hop, lovers stop and birds sing
On the face of whom I love, a bright light
reminding of sandcastles come summer,
blue skies, ice cream cornets, spade and bucket,
gulls winging, waves lapping at our laughter
On the face of whom I love, a pale light
reminding of snowfalls come autumn’s wake,
cosy fires of remembrance burning bright,
bringing joy and peace for a cold world’s sake
On the face of whom I love, heaven’s kiss,
all things in life that, come dark death, I’ll miss
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Today’s poem appeared on the blog in July 2009 and is repeated today especially for ‘Megan and Christopher’ who celebrate their first wedding anniversary today.
Happy anniversary!
It may not be all that makes the world go round but at least love keeps it (and us) from going pear shaped.
ON THE FACE OF WHOM I LOVE
On the face of whom I love, a sweet light
reminding of gay flowers come springtime,
blue hyacinths, red tulips, lilies white,
where rabbits hop, lovers stop and birds sing
On the face of whom I love, a bright light
reminding of sandcastles come summer,
blue skies, ice cream cornets, spade and bucket,
gulls winging, waves lapping at our laughter
On the face of whom I love, a pale light
reminding of snowfalls come autumn’s wake,
cosy fires of remembrance burning bright,
bringing joy and peace for a cold world’s sake
On the face of whom I love, heaven’s kiss,
all things in life that, come dark death, I’ll miss
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Friday, 19 November 2010
Just A Question Of Love
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=R+N+Taber&x=17&y=13
Book sales are very sluggish at the moment. Fair enough, we are all still having to tighten our belts as the global economic crisis continues to hit the cash in our pockets. Besides, no one writes poetry to make money. Even so, I rely on book sales to fund new collections and reprints of previous titles. So, one day perhaps... you might think of treating yourself or a friend to one of my poetry collections? As regular readers know, titles can be ordered in the UK at any bookstore or amazon.co.uk if they are not bothered about having a signed copy. However, as they are only on sale in the UK, at the moment, overseas readers will need to order direct from me.
For signed copies of first editions, email:
rogertab@aol.com - with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.
I plan to make second editions available from 2016. I’ll be in my 70s by then so, just in case the pipes of Pan may have already called me to Mount Parnassus, my close friend Graham has said he will see to it that second editions are published. In the meantime, I am writing & collating poems for Tracking The Torchbearer (2012) and Diary of a Time Traveller (2015); the first, by way of celebrating Her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the London Olympics while the second will help me celebrate a milestone of little if any interest to anyone but me - my 70th birthday.
Okay, sales pitch over for this year [you can’t blame a poor poet for trying] and back to the poetry business of the day...
This poem last appeared on the blog in March 2008 and I recently posted it again on my gay-interest blog. Reader ‘Michael’ who tells me he is a practising vicar contacted me to say he has a gay son and found the movie from which the poem takes its name both enjoyable and enlightening. I have to say it makes a nice change to hear from an open minded, open hearted cleric. Usually, they accuse me of all sorts.
Regular readers may also recall that the poem was inspired by a wonderful World Cinema (French) gay-interest movie of the same name - Juste une question d’amour. I was collating poems for a new collection at the time and several readers contacted me to ask that I include it…so I did. It isn’t just a movie for gay people. I especially recommend it to all parents who may disapprove of a son or daughter because he or she is gay.
Incidentally, another French movie I can recommend is Rock Haven. It is beautifully photographed and one of very few intelligent gay-interest movies I have seen that tackles the (Christian) faith v sexuality crisis of conscience that confronts many gay men and women. Try it, Michael, if you haven’t already.
This poem is a villanelle.
JUST A QUESTION OF LOVE
As spring rain from above
on Earth Mother in pain;
its just a question of love
As push comes to shove,
so love into its own,
as spring rain from above
The healing wing of a dove
will learn to fly again;
it’s just a question of love
Love has nothing to prove;
a bigot’s loss, its gain,
as spring rain from above
See a hand torn from glove
beat cold and pain;
it’s just a question of love
If nature’s sexuality prove
as precious a bane
as spring rain from above,
it’s just a question of love
From: On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010
Book sales are very sluggish at the moment. Fair enough, we are all still having to tighten our belts as the global economic crisis continues to hit the cash in our pockets. Besides, no one writes poetry to make money. Even so, I rely on book sales to fund new collections and reprints of previous titles. So, one day perhaps... you might think of treating yourself or a friend to one of my poetry collections? As regular readers know, titles can be ordered in the UK at any bookstore or amazon.co.uk if they are not bothered about having a signed copy. However, as they are only on sale in the UK, at the moment, overseas readers will need to order direct from me.
For signed copies of first editions, email:
rogertab@aol.com - with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.
I plan to make second editions available from 2016. I’ll be in my 70s by then so, just in case the pipes of Pan may have already called me to Mount Parnassus, my close friend Graham has said he will see to it that second editions are published. In the meantime, I am writing & collating poems for Tracking The Torchbearer (2012) and Diary of a Time Traveller (2015); the first, by way of celebrating Her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and the London Olympics while the second will help me celebrate a milestone of little if any interest to anyone but me - my 70th birthday.
Okay, sales pitch over for this year [you can’t blame a poor poet for trying] and back to the poetry business of the day...
This poem last appeared on the blog in March 2008 and I recently posted it again on my gay-interest blog. Reader ‘Michael’ who tells me he is a practising vicar contacted me to say he has a gay son and found the movie from which the poem takes its name both enjoyable and enlightening. I have to say it makes a nice change to hear from an open minded, open hearted cleric. Usually, they accuse me of all sorts.
Regular readers may also recall that the poem was inspired by a wonderful World Cinema (French) gay-interest movie of the same name - Juste une question d’amour. I was collating poems for a new collection at the time and several readers contacted me to ask that I include it…so I did. It isn’t just a movie for gay people. I especially recommend it to all parents who may disapprove of a son or daughter because he or she is gay.
Incidentally, another French movie I can recommend is Rock Haven. It is beautifully photographed and one of very few intelligent gay-interest movies I have seen that tackles the (Christian) faith v sexuality crisis of conscience that confronts many gay men and women. Try it, Michael, if you haven’t already.
This poem is a villanelle.
JUST A QUESTION OF LOVE
As spring rain from above
on Earth Mother in pain;
its just a question of love
As push comes to shove,
so love into its own,
as spring rain from above
The healing wing of a dove
will learn to fly again;
it’s just a question of love
Love has nothing to prove;
a bigot’s loss, its gain,
as spring rain from above
See a hand torn from glove
beat cold and pain;
it’s just a question of love
If nature’s sexuality prove
as precious a bane
as spring rain from above,
it’s just a question of love
From: On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
Lines On A Carthorse
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
I wonder how many of us pause every now and then to look at something (or someone) and see something (or someone) else?
LINES ON A CARTHORSE
Green patch, bursts of sunshine,
retired carthorse munching
contentedly away at a spread
of dandelions
Light breeze in a solitary ash
washing down a dusty heart
with tactile thoughts inclined
to haunt like romantic songs
played on your guitar dedicated
to the pair of us, could well
be now, fancying that I glimpse
a lock of red hair at the edge
of a teasing, passing cloud whose
oh, so-familiar ears, eyes,
nose, lips, turned to another
I didn’t see what was happening,
lost sight of listening, forgot to
look at what I saw, mistook hazy
infringements of personal space
for a lazy contentment, happiness
unaffected by the world beyond
that perimeter fence I constructed
with loving care, either assuming
we'd want the same things or maybe
too scared to ask, unknowingly
afraid of getting it wrong, ending
up alone
Retired carthorse, last seen munching
on dandelions by a solitary walker
shot down in a green patch by bursts
of sunshine
Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2010
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of The Third Eye: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
I wonder how many of us pause every now and then to look at something (or someone) and see something (or someone) else?
LINES ON A CARTHORSE
Green patch, bursts of sunshine,
retired carthorse munching
contentedly away at a spread
of dandelions
Light breeze in a solitary ash
washing down a dusty heart
with tactile thoughts inclined
to haunt like romantic songs
played on your guitar dedicated
to the pair of us, could well
be now, fancying that I glimpse
a lock of red hair at the edge
of a teasing, passing cloud whose
oh, so-familiar ears, eyes,
nose, lips, turned to another
I didn’t see what was happening,
lost sight of listening, forgot to
look at what I saw, mistook hazy
infringements of personal space
for a lazy contentment, happiness
unaffected by the world beyond
that perimeter fence I constructed
with loving care, either assuming
we'd want the same things or maybe
too scared to ask, unknowingly
afraid of getting it wrong, ending
up alone
Retired carthorse, last seen munching
on dandelions by a solitary walker
shot down in a green patch by bursts
of sunshine
Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2010
[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of The Third Eye: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Back In Business
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
I guess there are times when we all need to put our backs into rising above the kind of dirty tricks life is inclined to play on us. So why not play it at its own game and use some of that old magic that dates back to Creation?
Oh, yes, it’s called imagination.
BACK IN BUSINESS
Sometimes when I’m feeling low
I’ll enter paintings on walls,
engage with crowds at market fairs
let history course my veins,
giving selfhood a new dimension,
and fresh direction, letting
a lazy inner eye know we’re back
in business
Or I might stroll along rugged cliffs,
communing with waves below,
pause to chat with a friendly peasant
whose lot more harsh
than I will ever know, text books
do justice or any sympathy
with poverty even begin to bring
it home
An old farm house might invite me
to join its ghosts in a hearty meal,
the inimitable smell of home baking
lingering long after we’re eaten,
reviving my other senses, replacing
lethargy with motivation
enough to find satisfaction in putting
imagination to work
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
I guess there are times when we all need to put our backs into rising above the kind of dirty tricks life is inclined to play on us. So why not play it at its own game and use some of that old magic that dates back to Creation?
Oh, yes, it’s called imagination.
BACK IN BUSINESS
Sometimes when I’m feeling low
I’ll enter paintings on walls,
engage with crowds at market fairs
let history course my veins,
giving selfhood a new dimension,
and fresh direction, letting
a lazy inner eye know we’re back
in business
Or I might stroll along rugged cliffs,
communing with waves below,
pause to chat with a friendly peasant
whose lot more harsh
than I will ever know, text books
do justice or any sympathy
with poverty even begin to bring
it home
An old farm house might invite me
to join its ghosts in a hearty meal,
the inimitable smell of home baking
lingering long after we’re eaten,
reviving my other senses, replacing
lethargy with motivation
enough to find satisfaction in putting
imagination to work
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Monday, 15 November 2010
It's Magic
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
After the horrors of war, an altogether brighter take on life this week. After all, isn’t it what ordinary people as well as fighting men and women world-wide endure those horrors for, to see the light at the end of their various tunnels?
I have been asked by 'Tim' and his partner 'Alec', also 'Denise' to repeat the link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square last years so...:
http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T
Meanwhile...
Not so long ago I was waxing lyrical about Doris Day. A reader who has some kind words to say about my villanelles has asked if I would write one about Doris. I have done my best although no poem can do justice to this amazing woman. While I doubt whether Doris will ever read my blog, I’d like to dedicate the poem to her anyway. I only hope she likes it should anyone bring it to her attention. Some people hate villanelles, of course, but I have a passion for them. I love the discipline they impose on the poet. So perhaps this poetic form is not inappropriate given that acting and singing, too, require discipline.
Since so many readers of both this blog and my gay-interest blog contacted me enthusing about Doris, I am duplicating this post on each of them today.
IT’S MAGIC
Oh, how I love Doris Day,
singer, actress, gem;
she takes my breath away
Voice now bright and gay,
now like a lovely hymn;
oh, how I love Doris Day
Sparkling, come what may,
as a clear mountain stream;
she takes my breath away
No matter where I may lay
me down, she’s my dream;
oh, how I love Doris Day
She’s all the best critics say,
sheer magic for all time;
she takes my breath away
Though blond hair turn grey,
the spirit shall never dim;
oh, how I love Doris Day,
she takes my breath away
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
After the horrors of war, an altogether brighter take on life this week. After all, isn’t it what ordinary people as well as fighting men and women world-wide endure those horrors for, to see the light at the end of their various tunnels?
I have been asked by 'Tim' and his partner 'Alec', also 'Denise' to repeat the link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square last years so...:
http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T
Meanwhile...
Not so long ago I was waxing lyrical about Doris Day. A reader who has some kind words to say about my villanelles has asked if I would write one about Doris. I have done my best although no poem can do justice to this amazing woman. While I doubt whether Doris will ever read my blog, I’d like to dedicate the poem to her anyway. I only hope she likes it should anyone bring it to her attention. Some people hate villanelles, of course, but I have a passion for them. I love the discipline they impose on the poet. So perhaps this poetic form is not inappropriate given that acting and singing, too, require discipline.
Since so many readers of both this blog and my gay-interest blog contacted me enthusing about Doris, I am duplicating this post on each of them today.
IT’S MAGIC
Oh, how I love Doris Day,
singer, actress, gem;
she takes my breath away
Voice now bright and gay,
now like a lovely hymn;
oh, how I love Doris Day
Sparkling, come what may,
as a clear mountain stream;
she takes my breath away
No matter where I may lay
me down, she’s my dream;
oh, how I love Doris Day
She’s all the best critics say,
sheer magic for all time;
she takes my breath away
Though blond hair turn grey,
the spirit shall never dim;
oh, how I love Doris Day,
she takes my breath away
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Sunday, 14 November 2010
Last Post
http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/
Today’s poems (on both blogs) are especially to mark Remembrance Sunday. Both appeared on the blog some 18 months ago.
Yes, let us remember always...not only our war dead and their families but also those wounded in wars past and present and their continuing battle with pain just for getting on with their everyday lives in ways so many of us take for granted. We owe them...and how!
Ah, but when will humankind ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn...?
LAST POST
They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
that they would see a kinder end
than me, wracked with pain, no less so
for knowing I would never see
either homeland or loved ones again
yet had done my best (can anyone
do more?) and had no regrets but one
about fighting a war like this
A continuing absence of peace
They lay a black cloth over my face
so I should not see comrades close to tears
for the worst of fears
we put behind us who fight such wars
as we don’t always understand
but do our duty though it be in a land
as far away from the pub
on the corner of our street as heaven
from hell where they all but meet
here in Afghanistan
A continuing absence of peace
They put me in a box and closed the lid
so I would not feel the tears of passing clouds
on the journey home
or hear the strains of the Last Post
acknowledge me gone
nor see the flags lowered as silent crowds
line the streets of a small town
taking me to their hearts as if I were one
of their own, as they have done
for others like me, making our journey
less lonely for this
A lasting empathy with peace
The first sound I heard as they lowered me
into the earth was a child’s cry at the moment
of birth and I wished the child
and parents well in a kinder world than this
that saw me fight to save it
from a hell of its own making, no less so
for centuries of tradition
and a culture of oppression seeking
to break free while keeping faith
with its finer principles and (far) kinder
ways than this
A continuing absence of peace
“A good person, worthy sacrifice, fine soldier...”
Too late, I cannot hear.
This second poem is a villanelle, written July 2009 to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last British veteran of the First World War.
A FEELING FOR PEACE AND QUIET
On old Memory Lane, all is quiet
for those who fought a war to end war
so we may make our peace with it
Among cries of the fallen, a shout,
(At ’em lads, at ’em, that’s the score!);
on old Memory Lane all is quiet
They bore old age, faces firmly set
to do them proud who had gone before
so we may make our peace with it
We will always be in their debt,
dead and wounded on a foreign shore;
on old Memory Lane all is quiet
We must never even try to forget
those whose freedom’s colours wore
so we may make our peace with it
War, war and still more of it yet;
on the landscape of love, a weeping sore;
on old Memory Lane, all is quiet
so we may make our peace with it
[Note: Both poems are taken from: On the Battlefields Of Love: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]
Today’s poems (on both blogs) are especially to mark Remembrance Sunday. Both appeared on the blog some 18 months ago.
Yes, let us remember always...not only our war dead and their families but also those wounded in wars past and present and their continuing battle with pain just for getting on with their everyday lives in ways so many of us take for granted. We owe them...and how!
Ah, but when will humankind ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn...?
LAST POST
They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
that they would see a kinder end
than me, wracked with pain, no less so
for knowing I would never see
either homeland or loved ones again
yet had done my best (can anyone
do more?) and had no regrets but one
about fighting a war like this
A continuing absence of peace
They lay a black cloth over my face
so I should not see comrades close to tears
for the worst of fears
we put behind us who fight such wars
as we don’t always understand
but do our duty though it be in a land
as far away from the pub
on the corner of our street as heaven
from hell where they all but meet
here in Afghanistan
A continuing absence of peace
They put me in a box and closed the lid
so I would not feel the tears of passing clouds
on the journey home
or hear the strains of the Last Post
acknowledge me gone
nor see the flags lowered as silent crowds
line the streets of a small town
taking me to their hearts as if I were one
of their own, as they have done
for others like me, making our journey
less lonely for this
A lasting empathy with peace
The first sound I heard as they lowered me
into the earth was a child’s cry at the moment
of birth and I wished the child
and parents well in a kinder world than this
that saw me fight to save it
from a hell of its own making, no less so
for centuries of tradition
and a culture of oppression seeking
to break free while keeping faith
with its finer principles and (far) kinder
ways than this
A continuing absence of peace
“A good person, worthy sacrifice, fine soldier...”
Too late, I cannot hear.
This second poem is a villanelle, written July 2009 to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last British veteran of the First World War.
A FEELING FOR PEACE AND QUIET
On old Memory Lane, all is quiet
for those who fought a war to end war
so we may make our peace with it
Among cries of the fallen, a shout,
(At ’em lads, at ’em, that’s the score!);
on old Memory Lane all is quiet
They bore old age, faces firmly set
to do them proud who had gone before
so we may make our peace with it
We will always be in their debt,
dead and wounded on a foreign shore;
on old Memory Lane all is quiet
We must never even try to forget
those whose freedom’s colours wore
so we may make our peace with it
War, war and still more of it yet;
on the landscape of love, a weeping sore;
on old Memory Lane, all is quiet
so we may make our peace with it
[Note: Both poems are taken from: On the Battlefields Of Love: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Lost And Found
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I said on a recent post that I may not be able to continue posting daily to my blogs. This was due to computer problems; a virus attacked all my Word files and my anti-virus protection proved useless. A friend has lent me a spare pc and I have ordered a laptop...so hopefully I can just blog on...
It is not only in wars that we lose friends and loved ones. It happens to someone every minute of every hour of every day. If memories may sometimes seem poor compensation for not having them with us, at least they keep them close and this can be a great comfort. I guess it’s the most we can ask.
This poem first appeared on the blog in 2008 and is posted here today especially for librarian Jane B who lost her best friend for 35 years earlier this year.
[Note: Two poems for Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.]
LOST AND FOUND
Friends, family, lovers,
gone - but always part of us,
especially in twilight hours
as we pause in quietude
to contemplate our solitude;
each goodbye, lingering
lights in the eye over
a treasure chest
Let the exquisite amber
of a fallen leaf part exorcise
our grief. Autumn’s glory
all around; winter’s story
sure to keep Hope alive;
spring flowers, heartbeats
below ground; friends,
family, lovers...
Lost and found
[From: First Person Plural: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]
I said on a recent post that I may not be able to continue posting daily to my blogs. This was due to computer problems; a virus attacked all my Word files and my anti-virus protection proved useless. A friend has lent me a spare pc and I have ordered a laptop...so hopefully I can just blog on...
It is not only in wars that we lose friends and loved ones. It happens to someone every minute of every hour of every day. If memories may sometimes seem poor compensation for not having them with us, at least they keep them close and this can be a great comfort. I guess it’s the most we can ask.
This poem first appeared on the blog in 2008 and is posted here today especially for librarian Jane B who lost her best friend for 35 years earlier this year.
[Note: Two poems for Remembrance Sunday tomorrow.]
LOST AND FOUND
Friends, family, lovers,
gone - but always part of us,
especially in twilight hours
as we pause in quietude
to contemplate our solitude;
each goodbye, lingering
lights in the eye over
a treasure chest
Let the exquisite amber
of a fallen leaf part exorcise
our grief. Autumn’s glory
all around; winter’s story
sure to keep Hope alive;
spring flowers, heartbeats
below ground; friends,
family, lovers...
Lost and found
[From: First Person Plural: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Time And Again
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
Today is the day the armistice was signed that brought WW1 to an end, the war that was described as the war to end all wars. Tragically and perhaps predictably, it was not to be.
Especially, but by no means only at this time of year, we remember those fighting men and women - past and present - who have fought and are still fighting to make the world a better place and give peace a chance; not only those who have died but also those who have survived, often having to cope with awful physical and/or mental problems, their families too.
As I mentioned on a recent post, I received some criticism recently for reading a poem of mine on You Tube last week that refers to gay people, too, risking their lives at war. I can but say again, what has sexuality to do with it? Did it matter that Wilfred Owen was a homosexual, for example? [You Tube is still very much a learning curve for me and my close friend and cameraman Graham: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRV-di3VZTk ]
TIME AND AGAIN
Time and again, lights go out
all over the world;
time and again, brave men
and women risk all…to
turn them back on
Time and again, the dogs of war
tear into the world;
Time and again, skilled men
and women dare...to
attempt repair
Time and again, bringers of peace
promise us eternity;
Time and again, our fine men
and women risk all...to
see us through
Time and again, broken promises
litter the earth;
Time and again, sons, daughters,
friends and neighbours…will
pick up the pieces
Time and again, we’ll give thanks
all over the world;
Time and again, our brave men
and women must wish…we
would try harder
Copyright R. N. Taber 2009
Today is the day the armistice was signed that brought WW1 to an end, the war that was described as the war to end all wars. Tragically and perhaps predictably, it was not to be.
Especially, but by no means only at this time of year, we remember those fighting men and women - past and present - who have fought and are still fighting to make the world a better place and give peace a chance; not only those who have died but also those who have survived, often having to cope with awful physical and/or mental problems, their families too.
As I mentioned on a recent post, I received some criticism recently for reading a poem of mine on You Tube last week that refers to gay people, too, risking their lives at war. I can but say again, what has sexuality to do with it? Did it matter that Wilfred Owen was a homosexual, for example? [You Tube is still very much a learning curve for me and my close friend and cameraman Graham: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRV-di3VZTk ]
TIME AND AGAIN
Time and again, lights go out
all over the world;
time and again, brave men
and women risk all…to
turn them back on
Time and again, the dogs of war
tear into the world;
Time and again, skilled men
and women dare...to
attempt repair
Time and again, bringers of peace
promise us eternity;
Time and again, our fine men
and women risk all...to
see us through
Time and again, broken promises
litter the earth;
Time and again, sons, daughters,
friends and neighbours…will
pick up the pieces
Time and again, we’ll give thanks
all over the world;
Time and again, our brave men
and women must wish…we
would try harder
Copyright R. N. Taber 2009
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Deep River
http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=R+N+Taber&x=17&y=13
How often do we wonder how some people manage to find the time for leisure activities or even simple contemplation? If the answer is often, then we need to make time too...or risk life passing us by like a river leading to a vast sea where it might just as well never have existed....
A slightly different version of this poem first appeared on the blog in 2008. Hopefully, new readers will enjoy reading it for the first time while others will likewise enjoy getting reacquainted.
DEEP RIVER
A man by a river is always there,
usually fishing, sometimes drawing
or gazing into the air as if watching
birds in flight only, invariably, there
are none in sight as light on a face
all grizzled and worn (at first sight)
seems to shed all trace of care,
take on a saintly profile, beauty rare,
sublime, no more thrall to time
and place as the river running by,
emanating centuries of loving, dreaming,
despairing of ever finding whatever
it may be we cannot cease seeking
though scared of naming, never weary
of hoping, trying to express however
we may - in the way we look, talk, take
walks alone, looking for someone…
half convinced we expect to see no one
(if we do, what then?)
A strange man, people mutter and move on,
few daring to ask why he’s always there,
by a river, usually fishing, maybe drawing
(but often gazing into the air) a world
full of lost souls... reflecting the incapacity
of a native curiosity to translate into
an oral perspicacity leading to something
that has to be better than this mere passing on
like a river...
Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010
[Note: This poems has been (slightly) revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation. Second editions of my poetry titles will not be availale until 2015 at the earliest. Meanwhile, signed 1st eds. are available at a blog discount. Email: rogertab@aol.com with 'Blog reader' in the subject field. At present, copies are only on sale in the UK where readers can, of course, order at any bookstore, amazon.co.uk or borrow from their local public library.]
How often do we wonder how some people manage to find the time for leisure activities or even simple contemplation? If the answer is often, then we need to make time too...or risk life passing us by like a river leading to a vast sea where it might just as well never have existed....
A slightly different version of this poem first appeared on the blog in 2008. Hopefully, new readers will enjoy reading it for the first time while others will likewise enjoy getting reacquainted.
DEEP RIVER
A man by a river is always there,
usually fishing, sometimes drawing
or gazing into the air as if watching
birds in flight only, invariably, there
are none in sight as light on a face
all grizzled and worn (at first sight)
seems to shed all trace of care,
take on a saintly profile, beauty rare,
sublime, no more thrall to time
and place as the river running by,
emanating centuries of loving, dreaming,
despairing of ever finding whatever
it may be we cannot cease seeking
though scared of naming, never weary
of hoping, trying to express however
we may - in the way we look, talk, take
walks alone, looking for someone…
half convinced we expect to see no one
(if we do, what then?)
A strange man, people mutter and move on,
few daring to ask why he’s always there,
by a river, usually fishing, maybe drawing
(but often gazing into the air) a world
full of lost souls... reflecting the incapacity
of a native curiosity to translate into
an oral perspicacity leading to something
that has to be better than this mere passing on
like a river...
Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010
[Note: This poems has been (slightly) revised from the original as it appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation. Second editions of my poetry titles will not be availale until 2015 at the earliest. Meanwhile, signed 1st eds. are available at a blog discount. Email: rogertab@aol.com with 'Blog reader' in the subject field. At present, copies are only on sale in the UK where readers can, of course, order at any bookstore, amazon.co.uk or borrow from their local public library.]
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Horoscope
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I can never resist looking up my daily horoscope. Even so, I never take (much) notice if it’s not particularly favourable. Ah, but if it looks like I’m in for a good day that does wonders for my self-confidence.
HOROSCOPE
Some turn to love but for escape, comfort,
weary of a world full of pain and hate,
sick of being told what to do (or not),
seek peace, understanding in a kind heart
Some find the escape and comfort they seek,
believe they're safe under sheltering skies;
some, disenchanted by love for love’s sake,
tire of the same people, places, half lies…
Squaring up to life’s clout, never easy;
squaring up to love, harder still by far;
looking both in the eye with honesty
demands the sureness of a guiding star
Though to ashes and dust fall our bodies,
in the stars, always, love, life and choices
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
I can never resist looking up my daily horoscope. Even so, I never take (much) notice if it’s not particularly favourable. Ah, but if it looks like I’m in for a good day that does wonders for my self-confidence.
HOROSCOPE
Some turn to love but for escape, comfort,
weary of a world full of pain and hate,
sick of being told what to do (or not),
seek peace, understanding in a kind heart
Some find the escape and comfort they seek,
believe they're safe under sheltering skies;
some, disenchanted by love for love’s sake,
tire of the same people, places, half lies…
Squaring up to life’s clout, never easy;
squaring up to love, harder still by far;
looking both in the eye with honesty
demands the sureness of a guiding star
Though to ashes and dust fall our bodies,
in the stars, always, love, life and choices
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Monday, 8 November 2010
The Spirit Of Love
http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber
I hope some of you will have clicked on yesterday's link to my latest caper on You Tube. No one responded to my appeal for someone with more time of their hands than my friend Graham to act as cameraman but we will try and film on a regular basis. I am not discouraged by the fact that someone got in touch yesterday evening to say I should be ashamed of reading a poem about war that 'glorifies' gay people. There is nothing glorious about war. But fighting men and women world-wide deserve our admiration and it has always been a fact that some of them are gay. [Has this man never heard of Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon, for example?]
Do you think my poem Bonding With History glorifies anything or anyone? You can search for it by title on the blog or see me reading it on You Tube at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRV-di3VZTk (or keyword 'Tower of London Taber' in You Tube.]
Meanwhile...
A reader, ‘Ingrid’ spotted today’s poem on my gay-interest blog in September and has asked me to repeat it here ‘so I can show a Catholic friend who wouldn’t dream of looking at a gay blog because she agrees with the Pope that gay and transgender people are a threat to society regarding morality and positive values.’ Whatever the Pope may or may not have said, the reader clearly thinks this is how his mind works. In the light of what Benedict XVI has been reported as saying about gay and transgender people in the recent past, I for one suspect she may not be far wrong. [A word of caution though, Ingrid. Tread carefully. While I am always pleased when readers want to share a poem of mine with others, the last thing I want to do is come between friends. We may not always agree with our friends but friendship is a treasure that’s easier lost than many of us like to think and much, much harder to regain.]
A gay Catholic man dying of AIDS once confided that, while he did not regret his sexuality, he was scared there may be ‘repercussions’ in what he always referred to as ‘the next life’. He believed in God, if not (quite) the God of his Church. He was also a betting man and seemed reassured when I told him I’d willingly bet my life that, if there is one, there’s no way God is a homophobe.
Okay, I’m biased. But I know my Bible. I, personally, don’t see the historical Jesus as the Son of God but my reading of the New Testament is that Jesus was not the kind of person who would stoop to homophobia. He was a better man than that, much better. There were homosexuals in those days. Does Jesus speak out against them? When Christians attack us, they invariably turn to that same Old Testament whose understanding of God Jesus all but turns on its head. [When those who follow other religions attack us, can they honestly their religion is behind them all the way?]
Regular readers will know that, although I am not a religious man, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality…that I take from nature, nowhere else. Moreover, it is a sense of spirituality that reassures me no gay person of any religious persuasion (or none at all) need fear ‘repercussions’ in any ‘next life’ as a direct result of their sexuality.
As for whether or not I think there is life after death, I’d still bet my life on the spirit of love seeing me right in the end…if I were a betting man, that is. [Well, what else would you expect of a poet?]
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE
At the moment of my death
we‘ll make love again, just as
when our first twilight fell,
late summer leaves like a shower
of September rain, nature
casting a spell to keep us safer
than Holy Books dare tell
At the moment of my death
we’ll make love again, creating
as much joy and more
than it has given us, we chosen,
meant to fly time and space,
any separation but a homing-in
on some glorious horizon
At the moment of my death
our love will surely kill all pain,
be as a tree in blossom,
its springtime come again, though
a storm play tricks on its light,
for I shall rise above any threat
to return where first we met
At the moment of my death
the spirit of love will leave a mark
much like a smile on my pillow
and I’ll be guided by Earth Mother
to your side, she who kept faith
with us while we lived as we two,
stayed true to each other
Death may flirt with us night and day
yet will see us right, straight or gay
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
I hope some of you will have clicked on yesterday's link to my latest caper on You Tube. No one responded to my appeal for someone with more time of their hands than my friend Graham to act as cameraman but we will try and film on a regular basis. I am not discouraged by the fact that someone got in touch yesterday evening to say I should be ashamed of reading a poem about war that 'glorifies' gay people. There is nothing glorious about war. But fighting men and women world-wide deserve our admiration and it has always been a fact that some of them are gay. [Has this man never heard of Wilfred Owen or Siegfried Sassoon, for example?]
Do you think my poem Bonding With History glorifies anything or anyone? You can search for it by title on the blog or see me reading it on You Tube at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRV-di3VZTk (or keyword 'Tower of London Taber' in You Tube.]
Meanwhile...
A reader, ‘Ingrid’ spotted today’s poem on my gay-interest blog in September and has asked me to repeat it here ‘so I can show a Catholic friend who wouldn’t dream of looking at a gay blog because she agrees with the Pope that gay and transgender people are a threat to society regarding morality and positive values.’ Whatever the Pope may or may not have said, the reader clearly thinks this is how his mind works. In the light of what Benedict XVI has been reported as saying about gay and transgender people in the recent past, I for one suspect she may not be far wrong. [A word of caution though, Ingrid. Tread carefully. While I am always pleased when readers want to share a poem of mine with others, the last thing I want to do is come between friends. We may not always agree with our friends but friendship is a treasure that’s easier lost than many of us like to think and much, much harder to regain.]
A gay Catholic man dying of AIDS once confided that, while he did not regret his sexuality, he was scared there may be ‘repercussions’ in what he always referred to as ‘the next life’. He believed in God, if not (quite) the God of his Church. He was also a betting man and seemed reassured when I told him I’d willingly bet my life that, if there is one, there’s no way God is a homophobe.
Okay, I’m biased. But I know my Bible. I, personally, don’t see the historical Jesus as the Son of God but my reading of the New Testament is that Jesus was not the kind of person who would stoop to homophobia. He was a better man than that, much better. There were homosexuals in those days. Does Jesus speak out against them? When Christians attack us, they invariably turn to that same Old Testament whose understanding of God Jesus all but turns on its head. [When those who follow other religions attack us, can they honestly their religion is behind them all the way?]
Regular readers will know that, although I am not a religious man, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality…that I take from nature, nowhere else. Moreover, it is a sense of spirituality that reassures me no gay person of any religious persuasion (or none at all) need fear ‘repercussions’ in any ‘next life’ as a direct result of their sexuality.
As for whether or not I think there is life after death, I’d still bet my life on the spirit of love seeing me right in the end…if I were a betting man, that is. [Well, what else would you expect of a poet?]
THE SPIRIT OF LOVE
At the moment of my death
we‘ll make love again, just as
when our first twilight fell,
late summer leaves like a shower
of September rain, nature
casting a spell to keep us safer
than Holy Books dare tell
At the moment of my death
we’ll make love again, creating
as much joy and more
than it has given us, we chosen,
meant to fly time and space,
any separation but a homing-in
on some glorious horizon
At the moment of my death
our love will surely kill all pain,
be as a tree in blossom,
its springtime come again, though
a storm play tricks on its light,
for I shall rise above any threat
to return where first we met
At the moment of my death
the spirit of love will leave a mark
much like a smile on my pillow
and I’ll be guided by Earth Mother
to your side, she who kept faith
with us while we lived as we two,
stayed true to each other
Death may flirt with us night and day
yet will see us right, straight or gay
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Saturday, 6 November 2010
Every Poem Tells A Story
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I have always loved reading, writing and telling stories. I dare say you will have noticed how this carres over into many of my poems.
EVERY POEM TELLS A STORY
Every poem tells a story…
about love, hate, shame, glory,
whatever inspires, lights
the fires of creativity, blind coals
in secret cavities of the soul
that now and then burst
into flames, lighting up the mind,
exposing the heart’s needs,
its strengths and weaknesses
born of love, lust, hate, pain,
grieving for the world that it should
repeat its worst again and again,
leaving poor humanity to follow on
as best it can, put right
its wrongs, conveniently rewrite
the saddest songs of war,
disasters, wounds that will never
truly heal - with lines even
a paralysed heart can feel, though
it take a while to penetrate
its body armour, participate in the
latest United Nations resolution,
promises of aid on the way, more than
mere dreams fading as each day
turns into night, night into day, no one
(still) anything wiser to say
than - Let’s pray. And where is God
in this world-spreading chaos,
saving a child dying of AIDS…?
Whose the power, where the glory
in poems that tell such stories?
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
I have always loved reading, writing and telling stories. I dare say you will have noticed how this carres over into many of my poems.
EVERY POEM TELLS A STORY
Every poem tells a story…
about love, hate, shame, glory,
whatever inspires, lights
the fires of creativity, blind coals
in secret cavities of the soul
that now and then burst
into flames, lighting up the mind,
exposing the heart’s needs,
its strengths and weaknesses
born of love, lust, hate, pain,
grieving for the world that it should
repeat its worst again and again,
leaving poor humanity to follow on
as best it can, put right
its wrongs, conveniently rewrite
the saddest songs of war,
disasters, wounds that will never
truly heal - with lines even
a paralysed heart can feel, though
it take a while to penetrate
its body armour, participate in the
latest United Nations resolution,
promises of aid on the way, more than
mere dreams fading as each day
turns into night, night into day, no one
(still) anything wiser to say
than - Let’s pray. And where is God
in this world-spreading chaos,
saving a child dying of AIDS…?
Whose the power, where the glory
in poems that tell such stories?
[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Friday, 5 November 2010
The Dancer Upstairs
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Love poems are for everyone. Does the sexuality of the poet really matter? A reader spotted this poem on my gay-interest blog in September and has asked me to repeat it here for her boyfriend's birthday today. [I have since revised the closing couplet.]
THE DANCER UPSTAIRS
I lay in bed
listening to the music upstairs,
no wish to sleep,
my thoughts dancing in tune
with pretty dance steps;
now gliding across my world
like an ice queen;
now gate-crashing my privacy
like a rock star
I lay in bed
in a frenzy, like the music upstairs,
growing more frantic
every second images of you
take the floor;
now introducing me to your world's
choreography;
now swinging us into an ecstasy
of rock 'n' roll
I lay in bed,
relating to gentler sounds above,
as if the music, like me,
had finally grown weary of passion
and seeks peace;
now lifting me on wings of grace
like a dove to nest;
now asking me with sweet echoes
that I cave in to love
Hearts enthralled by a midnight rain,
we kissed again...
Copyright R, N. Taber 2010
Love poems are for everyone. Does the sexuality of the poet really matter? A reader spotted this poem on my gay-interest blog in September and has asked me to repeat it here for her boyfriend's birthday today. [I have since revised the closing couplet.]
THE DANCER UPSTAIRS
I lay in bed
listening to the music upstairs,
no wish to sleep,
my thoughts dancing in tune
with pretty dance steps;
now gliding across my world
like an ice queen;
now gate-crashing my privacy
like a rock star
I lay in bed
in a frenzy, like the music upstairs,
growing more frantic
every second images of you
take the floor;
now introducing me to your world's
choreography;
now swinging us into an ecstasy
of rock 'n' roll
I lay in bed,
relating to gentler sounds above,
as if the music, like me,
had finally grown weary of passion
and seeks peace;
now lifting me on wings of grace
like a dove to nest;
now asking me with sweet echoes
that I cave in to love
Hearts enthralled by a midnight rain,
we kissed again...
Copyright R, N. Taber 2010
Thursday, 4 November 2010
Postscript To An Obituary
As was the case yesterday, I am unable to log on to AOL so the post may appear slightly different than usual. I am posting it via Google Chrome and duplicating it on my gay-interest blog today.
Nothing can match the force of nature. A person's natural instincts are stronger than all five senses combines. Gay r straight, natural instinct confirms our sexuality. What we choose to do about it is up to us. Since time began (long before Star Wars) there have been those who choose the dark side of the force. It takes carious shapes and sizes. One of these wastes precious little time making itself known as homophobia...to victims and perpetrators alike.
This poem is a villanelle.
POSTSCRIPT TO AN OBITUARY
It didn't matter we were gay
or young and starting out,
we loved each other anyway
We'd share kisses every day
Apollo woke us with a shout;
it didn't matter we were gay
Gossips said we'd rue the day
(no idea what g-a-y is about);
we loved each other anyway
At college, at home or at play,
our love left us in no doubt;
it didn't matter we were gay
Happy to follow nature's way;
though homophobes about,
we loved each other anyway
Every bully must have its day
(left you dying in the street);
it didn't matter we were gay,
we loved each other anyway
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
Entries In A Diary
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
A reader has asked why I repeat poems that can be found by exploring the blog archives anyway.
Well, not everyone has time to explore the archives and newer readers will not have read the poem/s the first time around. There is usually a gap of at least a year before poems reappear on the blog, by which time most readers will have forgotten them and, hopefully, will enjoy becoming reacquainted. That said, I will be posting a brand new poem tomorrow so…watch this space. I am also working on another new poem that will probably be duplicated on both blogs on Thursday. [Most but by no means all the poems I post appear on both blogs. As some readers like to dip into my gay-interest blog as well from time to time, I try not to post them too close together.]
This poem first appeared on the blog in September 2009. Yet, still no one seems to know why the world’s honeybees are rapidly decreasing in numbers. This represents a real threat to the natural world.
Could it be that nature intends humankind should take its cue from the bees since so many people seem to think it’s okay to breed like rabbits (no one else’s business?) and have a population explosion?
If you ask me, humanity is more under threat than the bees and we only have ourselves to blame. Come to think of it, we are probably to blame for the plight of the poor honeybees as well.
ENTRIES IN A DIARY
Bees, pollinating flowers like words
on blank pages;
blank pages, turning like the seasons
(Earth Mother’s diary)
Earth Mother’s diary, confiding love,
fear and anger;
love, fear and anger tearing us apart,
we children of the wind
We children of the wind, tossed about
on a custom made grief;
a custom made grief exposing us all
for who and what we are
Who and what we are, scary questions
seeking answers;
scary questions seeking answers, bees
in swarm
Bees in swarm, reproducing like words
on blank pages;
words on blank pages, writing us all up
in Earth Mother’s diary
Earth Mother’s diary, recording the life
and death of a bee;
on the life and death of a bee, humanity
rests its case for honey
Resting its case for honey, a civilization
demanding we save our bees,
should make the time to re-read entries
in a diary
Copyright R. N. Taber 2009
A reader has asked why I repeat poems that can be found by exploring the blog archives anyway.
Well, not everyone has time to explore the archives and newer readers will not have read the poem/s the first time around. There is usually a gap of at least a year before poems reappear on the blog, by which time most readers will have forgotten them and, hopefully, will enjoy becoming reacquainted. That said, I will be posting a brand new poem tomorrow so…watch this space. I am also working on another new poem that will probably be duplicated on both blogs on Thursday. [Most but by no means all the poems I post appear on both blogs. As some readers like to dip into my gay-interest blog as well from time to time, I try not to post them too close together.]
This poem first appeared on the blog in September 2009. Yet, still no one seems to know why the world’s honeybees are rapidly decreasing in numbers. This represents a real threat to the natural world.
Could it be that nature intends humankind should take its cue from the bees since so many people seem to think it’s okay to breed like rabbits (no one else’s business?) and have a population explosion?
If you ask me, humanity is more under threat than the bees and we only have ourselves to blame. Come to think of it, we are probably to blame for the plight of the poor honeybees as well.
ENTRIES IN A DIARY
Bees, pollinating flowers like words
on blank pages;
blank pages, turning like the seasons
(Earth Mother’s diary)
Earth Mother’s diary, confiding love,
fear and anger;
love, fear and anger tearing us apart,
we children of the wind
We children of the wind, tossed about
on a custom made grief;
a custom made grief exposing us all
for who and what we are
Who and what we are, scary questions
seeking answers;
scary questions seeking answers, bees
in swarm
Bees in swarm, reproducing like words
on blank pages;
words on blank pages, writing us all up
in Earth Mother’s diary
Earth Mother’s diary, recording the life
and death of a bee;
on the life and death of a bee, humanity
rests its case for honey
Resting its case for honey, a civilization
demanding we save our bees,
should make the time to re-read entries
in a diary
Copyright R. N. Taber 2009
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