http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on both blogs today.
Those readers who have recently ordered signed copies of my poetry collections should receive them within this week. Anyone else needs to order within the next few days to guarantee delivery by Christmas. UK readers can, of course, also order copies through any bookstore or amazon.co.uk, but they are not available outside the UK so overseas readers would have to order direct from me at a generous blog discount; pay via PayPal. For more information, contact me at rogertab@aol.com with 'Blog Reader' in the subject field.
tp://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=R+N+Taber&x=17&y=13
Meanwhile...
Christmas is only weeks away. Whenever its followers celebrate this religion or that, we have a sense of one Faith providing answers to our raison d’être over another. This finds some people angry, others fearful, and others even further than ever along private paths littered with doubts and misgivings. The results, for even the most impassioned Believer can be a terrible sense of loneliness that even prayer cannot always assuage.
Many if not most people like me, who no longer subscribe to any religion but put their faith in nature, are only touched by religious differences in so far as we would like to see more people of all persuasions - religious, political, sexual, whatever - better able to enter into other points of view than divided by them, more integrated if not unified. Even so, we are no more immune to feelings of doubt, fear and loneliness than anyone else. And (as in my case) being gay has nothing to do with it although it is very hurtful that the more zealous members of some religions seem bent on whipping up an all but hysterical hostility against gay people.
Whatever our colour, creed, sex or sexuality we can but find our own way through the maze of human emotions that, if we are honest, are more likely than not to undermine any spiritual convictions if only now and then.
A teacher once told the class that whatever else we did not learn in life, we should learn to care. I took little notice at the time, but his words have returned to haunt me time and time again, especially when I feel at my lowest ebb. It is a lesson that contemporary societies around the world would do well to learn, and learn before it is too late.
REACHING FOR RAISON D’ETRE
Bells ringing, but not for me
so why should I care?
Snowmen smiling, but not at me
so why should I care?
Kids playing, but not with me
so why should I care?
People laughing, but not at me
so why should I care?
Robins singing, but not for me
so why should I care?
Some folks praying, but not for me
so why should I care?
Future generations relying on me
because I care;
nature’s vulnerability nagging at me
because I care;
religious differences preying on me
because I care
A feeling for peace and love in me
because I care;
an eye on the politics of change in me
because I care;
poetry of the human spirit, my reward
because I care
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Getting The Better Of Cyclopes
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on my general and gay-interest blogs today.
Bigotry is beneath contempt; add the sheer weight of hypocrisy and we are entering nether regions that would see even a skunk come up smelling of roses.
I will be 66 on the winter solstice and have met some wonderful people throughout my life who have brought much light, purpose and hope to it. Some of these have been of a religious persuasion; people who see through the hypocrites that manipulate religion for their own purposes to spiritual origins in which all religions share more common ends than differences. Even so, it has been my personal experience that the worst offenders against humanity have used religion as a front for their malpractices. Evangelical pastors are the obvious if not the only culprits; their attitude towards gay people in some African countries especially, but just about everywhere including the UK, gives the phrase, ‘Man’s inhumanity to Man’ a whole new dimension.
The old adage is so true in more ways than one. Never, indeed, judge a book by its cover; nor should we ever take its contents as having the last word.
GETTING THE BETTER OF CYCLOPES
We are gay,
making our own way in the world,
tinkering with convention,
ignoring derision last seen boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
getting high on a brave new word,
tampering with traditions,
bridging divisions last seen bloating
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
applauded for putting up two fingers
to the less enlightened
among heterosexual echelons boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
making our own way in the world,
evangelical monsters siding
with other fundamentalists to show us
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
getting high on a brave new word,
hounded for tampering
with crass ambitions last seen boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
viewed with suspicion for defying
Mandarins of Power
breathing godly hellfire last seen bloating
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
born into a sorry world of Earth Mother
last heard deploring
it’s waiting on the whites of a bigot’s eye
before shooting blanks
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
[Note: In Homer's Odyssey (Book IX), Odysseus is trapped in a cave by a Cyclops (plural: Cyclopes) that proceeds to eat several of his crew members. Odysseus gives him a barrel of very strong wine. Once the giant falls asleep, Odysseus and his men take a spear and destroy its only eye.]
This post is duplicated on my general and gay-interest blogs today.
Bigotry is beneath contempt; add the sheer weight of hypocrisy and we are entering nether regions that would see even a skunk come up smelling of roses.
I will be 66 on the winter solstice and have met some wonderful people throughout my life who have brought much light, purpose and hope to it. Some of these have been of a religious persuasion; people who see through the hypocrites that manipulate religion for their own purposes to spiritual origins in which all religions share more common ends than differences. Even so, it has been my personal experience that the worst offenders against humanity have used religion as a front for their malpractices. Evangelical pastors are the obvious if not the only culprits; their attitude towards gay people in some African countries especially, but just about everywhere including the UK, gives the phrase, ‘Man’s inhumanity to Man’ a whole new dimension.
The old adage is so true in more ways than one. Never, indeed, judge a book by its cover; nor should we ever take its contents as having the last word.
GETTING THE BETTER OF CYCLOPES
We are gay,
making our own way in the world,
tinkering with convention,
ignoring derision last seen boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
getting high on a brave new word,
tampering with traditions,
bridging divisions last seen bloating
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
applauded for putting up two fingers
to the less enlightened
among heterosexual echelons boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
making our own way in the world,
evangelical monsters siding
with other fundamentalists to show us
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
getting high on a brave new word,
hounded for tampering
with crass ambitions last seen boasting
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
viewed with suspicion for defying
Mandarins of Power
breathing godly hellfire last seen bloating
the whites of a bigot’s eye
We are gay,
born into a sorry world of Earth Mother
last heard deploring
it’s waiting on the whites of a bigot’s eye
before shooting blanks
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
[Note: In Homer's Odyssey (Book IX), Odysseus is trapped in a cave by a Cyclops (plural: Cyclopes) that proceeds to eat several of his crew members. Odysseus gives him a barrel of very strong wine. Once the giant falls asleep, Odysseus and his men take a spear and destroy its only eye.]
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Where's Robin?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on both blogs today.
Although hormone therapy for my prostate cancer has been very successful in so far as my PSA count is now down to 0.1, it leaves me feeling very tired a lot of the time so it’s less easy to fit in writing and related issues between the washing, shopping, cleaning and other tiresome but necessary chores!
So I will not be posting many poems over the next few months unless anyone requests that I repeat a particular poem; most poems will appear on both blogs simultaneously although the preamble may vary. Even so, watch out for new poems from time to time and there are 1,000+ posts to explore in the blog archives if the whim takes you.
In the meantime, I need to press on with the third volume of my gay-interest fiction trilogy (Blasphemy-Sacrilege-Redemption) delayed due to illness. [I’m not sure writing a trilogy was such a good idea! It hasn’t been very successful, but a lot of people have emailed me asking when Book Three will be ready so I feel obliged to finish it.]
Another task from which my love for writing up the blog has been distracting me is collating poems for my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - that will be published in the spring.
However, I will continue to post chapters of my current serial on the fiction blog:
http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/
Imcidentally, I hope to read extracts from one or two of my published novels on YouTube in the near future, meanwhile you might enjoy some of the poems and videos that Graham (my best friend and cameraman) and I have uploaded to my YouTube channel so far:
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Regular readers will know that I publish my poetry collections under my own imprint, Assembly Books, created in 2000 because no poetry publishers would consider including gay material. As it is, my books sell well (for poetry) although it is probably just as well I’m not in the least bit discouraged by the fact that I’ll never be in the best-sellers league, but am just pleased readers enjoy them. All my poetry books have a gay section and there are gay-interest poems in other sections where appropriate to that section’s theme. I refuse to enter into the view that poems on a gay theme should be seen as a separate genre-within-a-genre. This means that a new editions or reprints have always been dependant on book sales. [So if you enjoy my poems and would like a signed copy for yourself or as a present for someone, please get in touch. Feel free to get in touch anyway as I always love to hear from readers whether or not they want to spend any hard earned cash on my books.]
Now, regarding any winter and/or Christmas poems, I have already posted a good few on other occasions; you will find them by key-wording ‘winter’ or ‘Christmas’ respectively in the search box in the top left hand corner of your screen; the same goes for other themes I have tagged of course. Regular readers will know that my Christmas poems are mostly secular as I do not subscribe to Christianity or any other religion. Even so, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality and I try to convey a strong sense of this in some poems.
Meanwhile…
An earlier version of today’s poem appeared in Hands of Time, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2001 and subsequently in my collection.
As regular readers will know, I often find myself revising poems as I post them on my blogs. These revisions will appear in new editions of my poetry collections likely to be published after 2016. [I hope to publish a final collection in 2015, the year I reach 70.] In the meantime, signed first editions of all my poetry collections are available at a generous blog discount; contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.]
While some readers say they prefer the original poem/s, others prefer the revised version/s and yet others like both. So why do I revise poems at all, especially any that have already been published? As I have said before, where my take on a poem tends to vary as I read it from a distance of some years, my Muse insists (rightly or wrongly) that I do something about it.
In most love poems, sexuality is all but irrelevant; unlike some ignorant, narrow-minded, bigoted human beings (sad cases, all of them) love does not discriminate any more than nature. It will come as no surprise to new readers then that I have put my trust in nature since childhood and it is from nature, not (any) religion, that I find and take what I like to think is a strong sense of spirituality.
At this time of year, arguably more than any other, those people without a partner or close loved ones, for whatever reason, can feel very lonely. It seems as if everyone else has someone and we feel shut out. Yet, love comes in many shapes and forms. We don't have to be in a relationship or even a family to feel comforted ad inspired by our love for the simplest things nature offers us. Moreover, just going fr a walk and soaking up the landscape can bring us intro contact with other people and help us find words to go further than that first 'hello'. Then, of course, there is always the power of imagination. Reading has always taken me to wonderful places and places introduced me to a range of wonderful characters. I used to love reading and miss it now that my eyes get too tired to read as opften as I would like.
There is only one cure for loneliness; think positive and do something about it;, Oh, and never for one second believe you are the only lonely person in your locality.
WHERE’S ROBIN?
Two people meet and fall in love,
live happy-ever-after,
though tears of grief and pain
among sounds of joy
and laughter like drops of acid rain
in leafy evergreen
(So the story goes...)
Some never fall in love,
stay single ever after,
conceal tears of grief and pain
in sounds of joy
and laughter like something obscene
in leafy evergreen
(Who knows...?)
Oh, how love confounds us,
many its shapes,
and sounds joining with nature
to bring happiness,
like the song of redbreast rarely seen
in leafy evergreen
(Keep looking...)
Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011
[From: First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]
This post is duplicated on both blogs today.
Although hormone therapy for my prostate cancer has been very successful in so far as my PSA count is now down to 0.1, it leaves me feeling very tired a lot of the time so it’s less easy to fit in writing and related issues between the washing, shopping, cleaning and other tiresome but necessary chores!
So I will not be posting many poems over the next few months unless anyone requests that I repeat a particular poem; most poems will appear on both blogs simultaneously although the preamble may vary. Even so, watch out for new poems from time to time and there are 1,000+ posts to explore in the blog archives if the whim takes you.
In the meantime, I need to press on with the third volume of my gay-interest fiction trilogy (Blasphemy-Sacrilege-Redemption) delayed due to illness. [I’m not sure writing a trilogy was such a good idea! It hasn’t been very successful, but a lot of people have emailed me asking when Book Three will be ready so I feel obliged to finish it.]
Another task from which my love for writing up the blog has been distracting me is collating poems for my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - that will be published in the spring.
However, I will continue to post chapters of my current serial on the fiction blog:
http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/
Imcidentally, I hope to read extracts from one or two of my published novels on YouTube in the near future, meanwhile you might enjoy some of the poems and videos that Graham (my best friend and cameraman) and I have uploaded to my YouTube channel so far:
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Regular readers will know that I publish my poetry collections under my own imprint, Assembly Books, created in 2000 because no poetry publishers would consider including gay material. As it is, my books sell well (for poetry) although it is probably just as well I’m not in the least bit discouraged by the fact that I’ll never be in the best-sellers league, but am just pleased readers enjoy them. All my poetry books have a gay section and there are gay-interest poems in other sections where appropriate to that section’s theme. I refuse to enter into the view that poems on a gay theme should be seen as a separate genre-within-a-genre. This means that a new editions or reprints have always been dependant on book sales. [So if you enjoy my poems and would like a signed copy for yourself or as a present for someone, please get in touch. Feel free to get in touch anyway as I always love to hear from readers whether or not they want to spend any hard earned cash on my books.]
Now, regarding any winter and/or Christmas poems, I have already posted a good few on other occasions; you will find them by key-wording ‘winter’ or ‘Christmas’ respectively in the search box in the top left hand corner of your screen; the same goes for other themes I have tagged of course. Regular readers will know that my Christmas poems are mostly secular as I do not subscribe to Christianity or any other religion. Even so, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality and I try to convey a strong sense of this in some poems.
Meanwhile…
An earlier version of today’s poem appeared in Hands of Time, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2001 and subsequently in my collection.
As regular readers will know, I often find myself revising poems as I post them on my blogs. These revisions will appear in new editions of my poetry collections likely to be published after 2016. [I hope to publish a final collection in 2015, the year I reach 70.] In the meantime, signed first editions of all my poetry collections are available at a generous blog discount; contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.]
While some readers say they prefer the original poem/s, others prefer the revised version/s and yet others like both. So why do I revise poems at all, especially any that have already been published? As I have said before, where my take on a poem tends to vary as I read it from a distance of some years, my Muse insists (rightly or wrongly) that I do something about it.
In most love poems, sexuality is all but irrelevant; unlike some ignorant, narrow-minded, bigoted human beings (sad cases, all of them) love does not discriminate any more than nature. It will come as no surprise to new readers then that I have put my trust in nature since childhood and it is from nature, not (any) religion, that I find and take what I like to think is a strong sense of spirituality.
At this time of year, arguably more than any other, those people without a partner or close loved ones, for whatever reason, can feel very lonely. It seems as if everyone else has someone and we feel shut out. Yet, love comes in many shapes and forms. We don't have to be in a relationship or even a family to feel comforted ad inspired by our love for the simplest things nature offers us. Moreover, just going fr a walk and soaking up the landscape can bring us intro contact with other people and help us find words to go further than that first 'hello'. Then, of course, there is always the power of imagination. Reading has always taken me to wonderful places and places introduced me to a range of wonderful characters. I used to love reading and miss it now that my eyes get too tired to read as opften as I would like.
There is only one cure for loneliness; think positive and do something about it;, Oh, and never for one second believe you are the only lonely person in your locality.
WHERE’S ROBIN?
Two people meet and fall in love,
live happy-ever-after,
though tears of grief and pain
among sounds of joy
and laughter like drops of acid rain
in leafy evergreen
(So the story goes...)
Some never fall in love,
stay single ever after,
conceal tears of grief and pain
in sounds of joy
and laughter like something obscene
in leafy evergreen
(Who knows...?)
Oh, how love confounds us,
many its shapes,
and sounds joining with nature
to bring happiness,
like the song of redbreast rarely seen
in leafy evergreen
(Keep looking...)
Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011
[From: First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
An Education
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
There are moved afoot to ‘improve’ the quality and content of education in UK schools regarding sexual matters and relationships. I agree, this has been needed for years. However, I have yet to hear anyone in the media give much if any credence to gay issues and relationships.
If the majority of ministers, teachers and parents keep ignoring gay issues (especially regarding gay men, since this is where many if not most have a problem with the whole gay ethic, they will only succeed in alienation alienate yet another generation of gay boys and girls, men and women.
It isn’t good enough. We are living in the 21st century, for goodness sake. How can western governments and education authorities promote Equal Opportunities and Political Correctness on the one hand, while quietly brushing gay issues under the proverbial carpet on the other? Yes, it is important to wipe out racism and ageism, but these are not the only maggots in society; homophobia and religious prejudices deserve a higher (positive) media profile if we are to tackle these too. It is typical of the hypocrisy endemic to western society.
While other parts of the world still refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of gay relationships, here in the so-called ‘liberal’ West there are far too many people in its various socio-political-cultural-religious echelons who like to make out they would not dream of discriminating against anyone, regardless of their colour, creed, sexuality or even age.. .so long as they are not asked to actively practise what they preach in regard to gay issues 'in case people get the wrong idea'. The notion of gult by association would be ridiculous if it wasn't so sad, sometimes tragic.
All praise to president Obama for speaking up for gay men and women in the armed services. When I said as much to an American to whom I’d got chatting on a train not long ago, he responded, ‘Yeah, well, that’s the kind of crap you’d expect from a n***er.’ Needless to say I voted with my feet and went to sit elsewhere.
AN EDUCATION
I gave little thought
to sexuality until one day at school,
a classmate brushed against me
in the showers, causing a Tsunami
of mixed feelings to descend
on me, carry me away, refuting
every thought and lesson
I’d been taught in the best interests
of so-called ‘Education’
I had to turn away
so he would not see or (worse) let on
to others how my sexuality
had responded to the heat and silk
of his splendid body
as, naked, we washed ourselves clean
though some would say
I was the victim of a temptation
to let my self 'sin'
I resisted temptation,
but no victim was I that day, only shown
an alternative way to live, love,
and fulfil what I had long suspected
was desire in me, but rejected
as an unknown quantity, preferring
to keep to safe, well worn paths
in the preferred manner and direction
of so-called ‘Education’
I learned a much valued lesson that day,
acknowledged I am gay
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
There are moved afoot to ‘improve’ the quality and content of education in UK schools regarding sexual matters and relationships. I agree, this has been needed for years. However, I have yet to hear anyone in the media give much if any credence to gay issues and relationships.
If the majority of ministers, teachers and parents keep ignoring gay issues (especially regarding gay men, since this is where many if not most have a problem with the whole gay ethic, they will only succeed in alienation alienate yet another generation of gay boys and girls, men and women.
It isn’t good enough. We are living in the 21st century, for goodness sake. How can western governments and education authorities promote Equal Opportunities and Political Correctness on the one hand, while quietly brushing gay issues under the proverbial carpet on the other? Yes, it is important to wipe out racism and ageism, but these are not the only maggots in society; homophobia and religious prejudices deserve a higher (positive) media profile if we are to tackle these too. It is typical of the hypocrisy endemic to western society.
While other parts of the world still refuse to acknowledge the legitimacy of gay relationships, here in the so-called ‘liberal’ West there are far too many people in its various socio-political-cultural-religious echelons who like to make out they would not dream of discriminating against anyone, regardless of their colour, creed, sexuality or even age.. .so long as they are not asked to actively practise what they preach in regard to gay issues 'in case people get the wrong idea'. The notion of gult by association would be ridiculous if it wasn't so sad, sometimes tragic.
All praise to president Obama for speaking up for gay men and women in the armed services. When I said as much to an American to whom I’d got chatting on a train not long ago, he responded, ‘Yeah, well, that’s the kind of crap you’d expect from a n***er.’ Needless to say I voted with my feet and went to sit elsewhere.
AN EDUCATION
I gave little thought
to sexuality until one day at school,
a classmate brushed against me
in the showers, causing a Tsunami
of mixed feelings to descend
on me, carry me away, refuting
every thought and lesson
I’d been taught in the best interests
of so-called ‘Education’
I had to turn away
so he would not see or (worse) let on
to others how my sexuality
had responded to the heat and silk
of his splendid body
as, naked, we washed ourselves clean
though some would say
I was the victim of a temptation
to let my self 'sin'
I resisted temptation,
but no victim was I that day, only shown
an alternative way to live, love,
and fulfil what I had long suspected
was desire in me, but rejected
as an unknown quantity, preferring
to keep to safe, well worn paths
in the preferred manner and direction
of so-called ‘Education’
I learned a much valued lesson that day,
acknowledged I am gay
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
A Short Essay On Children's Play
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I am no die-hard capitalist by any stretch of the imagination, but the idea that a capitalist is related to the Bogey Man under a child’s bed is absurd. Raising that child and trying to give him or her best chances in life is a costly business. Capitalism plays no small part in making those chances available.
A former colleague commented only recently on a mutual friend who is doing well in the world of big business that it was an obvious career choice for him because, ‘Like all fat cats, he thinks with his wallet and has no imagination.’
Well, there are exceptions to every sweeping statement, and in this case I happen to know better...
A SHORT ESSAY ON CHILDREN'S PLAY
I chanced to glance from a window
at children playing in the street below;
their colourful antics took me back
to halcyon times of myth and magic;
I couldn’t resist opening the window,
setting sail on waves of wicked laughter
to a bay where cliffs of ivy trellis
rose above a stormy sea of long grass
The garden shed, a mighty galleon,
we handkerchief pirates bearing down,
makeshift swords ready and able,
all hands to the oars of a cast-off table;
we’d meant to take no prisoners,
but time and tide got the better of us;
heaven closed in, fired a broadside
and our mothers called us back inside
From the window, I saw someone
rush at the children, moving them on;
‘Away! Let’s have some peace!’
(Leviathan jaws homing in on innocence.)
I slammed the window shut, angry
at being dragged thus from my reverie
if mindful that imagination’s pull
has no place around a boardroom table
I had a fight on my hands that day,
to see my motion passed come what may,
sailed too close to the wind in the eyes
of those least inclined to be adventurous,
but, oh, I got the better of them all
(in spite of a broadside too close to call)
steered my prize safely to harbour,
wiping my brow with a pirate’s bandana
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
I am no die-hard capitalist by any stretch of the imagination, but the idea that a capitalist is related to the Bogey Man under a child’s bed is absurd. Raising that child and trying to give him or her best chances in life is a costly business. Capitalism plays no small part in making those chances available.
A former colleague commented only recently on a mutual friend who is doing well in the world of big business that it was an obvious career choice for him because, ‘Like all fat cats, he thinks with his wallet and has no imagination.’
Well, there are exceptions to every sweeping statement, and in this case I happen to know better...
A SHORT ESSAY ON CHILDREN'S PLAY
I chanced to glance from a window
at children playing in the street below;
their colourful antics took me back
to halcyon times of myth and magic;
I couldn’t resist opening the window,
setting sail on waves of wicked laughter
to a bay where cliffs of ivy trellis
rose above a stormy sea of long grass
The garden shed, a mighty galleon,
we handkerchief pirates bearing down,
makeshift swords ready and able,
all hands to the oars of a cast-off table;
we’d meant to take no prisoners,
but time and tide got the better of us;
heaven closed in, fired a broadside
and our mothers called us back inside
From the window, I saw someone
rush at the children, moving them on;
‘Away! Let’s have some peace!’
(Leviathan jaws homing in on innocence.)
I slammed the window shut, angry
at being dragged thus from my reverie
if mindful that imagination’s pull
has no place around a boardroom table
I had a fight on my hands that day,
to see my motion passed come what may,
sailed too close to the wind in the eyes
of those least inclined to be adventurous,
but, oh, I got the better of them all
(in spite of a broadside too close to call)
steered my prize safely to harbour,
wiping my brow with a pirate’s bandana
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Monday, 21 November 2011
The Yearling
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Now, several readers have asked where they can buy the novels serialised on my fiction blog. Many thanks for asking, but after a good many false starts, I gave up trying to interest literary agents or publishers and decided to post all my unpublished works on the blog rather than have them doing nothing and going nowhere on my computer. It is my intention to Kindle publish them at a later date. Meanwhile, anyone is welcome to drop by and see if there is a storyline that catches their interest; the second serial will end early in the New Year and will hopefully be followed by another, depending how popular the blog becomes, or not as the case may be... :
http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/
Meanwhile...
It has been my experience that homophobes are often more angry with themselves than with the gay people they profess to deplore. More than once, when I was sexually active, I enjoyed close encounters with guys who had a great line in chat-up, but whose conversation on parting would go something like this:
HE (apologetically) I just can’t live that way, end of story. I’m getting married to a great girl who loves me to bits, What’s more, she’ll be a great wife and mother and an asset to my career.
ME (wryly) If you don’t mind my saying so, you have a very cold blooded attitude for such a hot blooded guy.
HE (shrugs) That’s life...
I never knew whether to laugh or cry.
Now, I personally know several guys who are openly homophobic and privately visit gay cruising areas. [Well, not as openly now that political correctness has driven so much bigotry behind closed doors.] How do I know? Because I have a gay friend who also visits those same places. One day someone may well ‘out’ them, but it won’t be me or my friend if only because how they live their lives is none of our business any more than how we live our lives is any of theirs.
True, I have met married men (and women) who love their partners and children to bits and see no harm in same sex close encounters on the side, and I’m not a judgemental person. Even so, I have to say it smacks of betrayal to me. During my youth and early manhood, I had to keep my sexuality a secret from family and friends and living that lie nearly killed me. As it was, as regular readers know, it culminated in a severe nervous breakdown during which I attempted suicide.
Maybe if more bisexual or essentially gay men and women were to confide in their opposite sex partners from the start, there would be less heartbreak all round? I have met such couples, and it never ceases to amaze me just how much love is prepared to take in its stride.
Without honesty, though, what chance even love?
THE YEARLING
You body relaxed,
the tip of your tongue stroking my lips
as we made love,
exploring, adoring, each other’s bodies,
oh, so tenderly at the start
then letting rip with pent-up passions
of the heart
It was our first time
and you gave no hint It would be our last
as we made love
in a manner that was sheer poetry
desire in perfect rhythm,
naked flesh feeding on the pleasures
of wet dreams
We became as one,
riding a pale yearling over leafy meadows,
majestic mountains,
finally down heather-scented slopes
leading to the sea
where we lay, spent, on a sandy shore
content in its embrace
I stroked your hair
where its flames but flickered in the hearth
you’d made of my heart
and I longed to rouse your heat in me
again, again, again…
even as each exquisite flame died,
one by one
You stirred, kissed me
until my mouth felt bruised by the intensity
of that long goodbye
though not as I sensed you’d have it be
but much the same as I,
lying in sun-kissed sand, no one
making demands
That kiss was magic, its spell cruelly broken,
your mind bent on marrying a woman
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Now, several readers have asked where they can buy the novels serialised on my fiction blog. Many thanks for asking, but after a good many false starts, I gave up trying to interest literary agents or publishers and decided to post all my unpublished works on the blog rather than have them doing nothing and going nowhere on my computer. It is my intention to Kindle publish them at a later date. Meanwhile, anyone is welcome to drop by and see if there is a storyline that catches their interest; the second serial will end early in the New Year and will hopefully be followed by another, depending how popular the blog becomes, or not as the case may be... :
http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/
Meanwhile...
It has been my experience that homophobes are often more angry with themselves than with the gay people they profess to deplore. More than once, when I was sexually active, I enjoyed close encounters with guys who had a great line in chat-up, but whose conversation on parting would go something like this:
HE (apologetically) I just can’t live that way, end of story. I’m getting married to a great girl who loves me to bits, What’s more, she’ll be a great wife and mother and an asset to my career.
ME (wryly) If you don’t mind my saying so, you have a very cold blooded attitude for such a hot blooded guy.
HE (shrugs) That’s life...
I never knew whether to laugh or cry.
Now, I personally know several guys who are openly homophobic and privately visit gay cruising areas. [Well, not as openly now that political correctness has driven so much bigotry behind closed doors.] How do I know? Because I have a gay friend who also visits those same places. One day someone may well ‘out’ them, but it won’t be me or my friend if only because how they live their lives is none of our business any more than how we live our lives is any of theirs.
True, I have met married men (and women) who love their partners and children to bits and see no harm in same sex close encounters on the side, and I’m not a judgemental person. Even so, I have to say it smacks of betrayal to me. During my youth and early manhood, I had to keep my sexuality a secret from family and friends and living that lie nearly killed me. As it was, as regular readers know, it culminated in a severe nervous breakdown during which I attempted suicide.
Maybe if more bisexual or essentially gay men and women were to confide in their opposite sex partners from the start, there would be less heartbreak all round? I have met such couples, and it never ceases to amaze me just how much love is prepared to take in its stride.
Without honesty, though, what chance even love?
THE YEARLING
You body relaxed,
the tip of your tongue stroking my lips
as we made love,
exploring, adoring, each other’s bodies,
oh, so tenderly at the start
then letting rip with pent-up passions
of the heart
It was our first time
and you gave no hint It would be our last
as we made love
in a manner that was sheer poetry
desire in perfect rhythm,
naked flesh feeding on the pleasures
of wet dreams
We became as one,
riding a pale yearling over leafy meadows,
majestic mountains,
finally down heather-scented slopes
leading to the sea
where we lay, spent, on a sandy shore
content in its embrace
I stroked your hair
where its flames but flickered in the hearth
you’d made of my heart
and I longed to rouse your heat in me
again, again, again…
even as each exquisite flame died,
one by one
You stirred, kissed me
until my mouth felt bruised by the intensity
of that long goodbye
though not as I sensed you’d have it be
but much the same as I,
lying in sun-kissed sand, no one
making demands
That kiss was magic, its spell cruelly broken,
your mind bent on marrying a woman
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Anger Management
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on both blogs today for the interest of any readers who might enjoy my latest YouTube video during which I read the poem as a voice-over:
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber (Ship In A Bottle)
I am a fire sign, born on the winter solstice. I have a temper when roused.
MOTHER: You must learn to control that temper of yours, son.
BOY: How?
MOTHER: Use your imagination.
So I did...and still do.
ANGER MANAGEMENT
I've seen a Ship in a Bottle
tossed into the sea
among waves like a range
of snowy mountains;
it was I who sent the ship
to ride out a storm
among clouds like billows
of smoke
I leapt into the frantic sea,
swam for my life,
caught up with the bottle,
boarded the ship;
no raging sea or angry sky
could touch us,
my ship and I, in our bubble
made of glass
Deaf to the wind, blinded
by the dark,
conscious only of rancid air
suffocating me...
in desperation, I lashed out
at the bubble,
smashed the glass, let the sea
have its way
Suddenly, I'm floating upon
leaves of grass
smelling of spring rain across
a range of green hills;
storm passes, sea calms down,
deposits me...
where a so-familiar shoreline
is peopled with pebbles
What choice but to negotiate
broken glass,
make peace with the pebbles,
aspire to sanctuary?
Now, should dark fury grip me,
I go to a table, let
a Ship in a Bottle ride its back,
break me in
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
[Note: This poem will appear in my next major collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - due for UK publication in the spring; all readers (including overseas) will be able to buy signed copies from me via PayPal at the usual blog discount.]
This post is duplicated on both blogs today for the interest of any readers who might enjoy my latest YouTube video during which I read the poem as a voice-over:
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber (Ship In A Bottle)
I am a fire sign, born on the winter solstice. I have a temper when roused.
MOTHER: You must learn to control that temper of yours, son.
BOY: How?
MOTHER: Use your imagination.
So I did...and still do.
ANGER MANAGEMENT
I've seen a Ship in a Bottle
tossed into the sea
among waves like a range
of snowy mountains;
it was I who sent the ship
to ride out a storm
among clouds like billows
of smoke
I leapt into the frantic sea,
swam for my life,
caught up with the bottle,
boarded the ship;
no raging sea or angry sky
could touch us,
my ship and I, in our bubble
made of glass
Deaf to the wind, blinded
by the dark,
conscious only of rancid air
suffocating me...
in desperation, I lashed out
at the bubble,
smashed the glass, let the sea
have its way
Suddenly, I'm floating upon
leaves of grass
smelling of spring rain across
a range of green hills;
storm passes, sea calms down,
deposits me...
where a so-familiar shoreline
is peopled with pebbles
What choice but to negotiate
broken glass,
make peace with the pebbles,
aspire to sanctuary?
Now, should dark fury grip me,
I go to a table, let
a Ship in a Bottle ride its back,
break me in
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Friday, 18 November 2011
Customer Care
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
A reader has contacted me to say she had been wrongly accused of shoplifting and her complaint to the store’s Head Office not only received no hint of apology but also read as if she was in the wrong. She continues to feel distressed and quite helpless to do anything about it.
I know how she feels. However, she must put it behind her or the bastards have won that nasty little game they love to play with us called Customer Care. Oh, I dare say other people will say C C is a wonderful initiative, but that is small comfort to those of us who feel cheated.
After today’s poem appeared in my collection and later on the blog (in 2007), several readers wrote to say they had experienced similar trauma at the hands of so-called Customer Care operatives. I read recently that more and more people are entering this field. Well, it sounds like a cushy number to me.
My experience of staff at Somerfields' (now The Co-op) and Wetherspoons' so-called Customer Care at their respective Head Offices is that they are less interested in investigating complaints than justifying the actions of their staff that prompted it. Even the John Lewis store’s Customer Care department in Oxford Street let me down badly over a guarantee issue and simply prevaricated when I complained.
I rarely complain. All three complaints were entirely justified; the first two caused me considerable distress aggravated by the fact that neither were given proper credence or treated with the respect a paying customer deserves. Somerfields did at least offer an unconvincing apology and went so far as to offera paltry sum by way of compensation, which I refused on principle. While I did not use a Somerfelds store again until they were taken over by The Co-op, I have to be desperate for an item to use the local store in question where I was once a daily customer. The John Lewis issue just made me angry, but I will never shop there again.
I have to say I’ve always been delighted by the quality of service provided at various Wetherpoons pubs around the UK. Yet, I would never set foot in the one that provoked my complaint eighteen months or so ago (even if I hadn’t been barred for any good reason) and also advise everyone I know to avoid it when they are in the area. Even so, it is small comfort, and I still get angry when I think of certain smug nerds paid a salary to deflect any complaints and put those of us down who have the audacity to complain.
Customer Care...? Oh, and just what is that?
CUSTOMER CARE
What I’d forgotten I couldn’t quite place
a second time I walked into the shop;
Suddenly, I could feel Suspicion’s gaze
tearing into my flesh, nor would it stop
I half-turned, saw a pair of glaring eyes
watching my every innocent move,
their owner summoning help to comprise
an ugly trio, my guilt poised to prove
Scared, I left, no word or challenge spoken
until He who still kept me in his sights
ran after me, escorted me back, said to open
my bag, prove I had paid, waive my rights
Honesty upheld, now suspicion free…
Small change, the rape of my integrity
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]
A reader has contacted me to say she had been wrongly accused of shoplifting and her complaint to the store’s Head Office not only received no hint of apology but also read as if she was in the wrong. She continues to feel distressed and quite helpless to do anything about it.
I know how she feels. However, she must put it behind her or the bastards have won that nasty little game they love to play with us called Customer Care. Oh, I dare say other people will say C C is a wonderful initiative, but that is small comfort to those of us who feel cheated.
After today’s poem appeared in my collection and later on the blog (in 2007), several readers wrote to say they had experienced similar trauma at the hands of so-called Customer Care operatives. I read recently that more and more people are entering this field. Well, it sounds like a cushy number to me.
My experience of staff at Somerfields' (now The Co-op) and Wetherspoons' so-called Customer Care at their respective Head Offices is that they are less interested in investigating complaints than justifying the actions of their staff that prompted it. Even the John Lewis store’s Customer Care department in Oxford Street let me down badly over a guarantee issue and simply prevaricated when I complained.
I rarely complain. All three complaints were entirely justified; the first two caused me considerable distress aggravated by the fact that neither were given proper credence or treated with the respect a paying customer deserves. Somerfields did at least offer an unconvincing apology and went so far as to offera paltry sum by way of compensation, which I refused on principle. While I did not use a Somerfelds store again until they were taken over by The Co-op, I have to be desperate for an item to use the local store in question where I was once a daily customer. The John Lewis issue just made me angry, but I will never shop there again.
I have to say I’ve always been delighted by the quality of service provided at various Wetherpoons pubs around the UK. Yet, I would never set foot in the one that provoked my complaint eighteen months or so ago (even if I hadn’t been barred for any good reason) and also advise everyone I know to avoid it when they are in the area. Even so, it is small comfort, and I still get angry when I think of certain smug nerds paid a salary to deflect any complaints and put those of us down who have the audacity to complain.
Customer Care...? Oh, and just what is that?
CUSTOMER CARE
What I’d forgotten I couldn’t quite place
a second time I walked into the shop;
Suddenly, I could feel Suspicion’s gaze
tearing into my flesh, nor would it stop
I half-turned, saw a pair of glaring eyes
watching my every innocent move,
their owner summoning help to comprise
an ugly trio, my guilt poised to prove
Scared, I left, no word or challenge spoken
until He who still kept me in his sights
ran after me, escorted me back, said to open
my bag, prove I had paid, waive my rights
Honesty upheld, now suspicion free…
Small change, the rape of my integrity
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Tattoo Art
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on both my general and gay-interest bogs today.
Now, what is it with some people? Not content with trying to put me down because I’m gay and don’t write ‘proper’ modern poetry, some do their best to put me down for the likes of referring to dessert as ‘afters’ which is what we always called it at home when I was growing up. [And why not, since we talk about ‘Starters’?] Similarly, I once asked to see the Voters Register at a library where a supercilious Assistant told me I really meant the Electoral Roll.
Don’t you just hate it when people try to put you down?
Mind you, I’ve even met gay people who have tried to put me down because I don’t camp it up much. Well, I can camp it up as well as anyone else when I’m in the mood, but I’m not a naturally camp guy. I’ve no problem with camp, but anyone who honestly believes that G+A+Y = Camp or someone has to be cheating really does have a problem.
I often recall how, in my teens, I confided to my mother that I was worried sick about an interview with a Careers Officer the next day because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to be when I left school. She just shrugged and said, ‘Try being yourself and you won’t go far wrong.’ She was right, of course, but that was hard for me to admit at the time since I wasn’t being myself at all as being gay was still a criminal offence. I’ve tried to make up for it since.
TATTOO ART
Me, tacky? No way,
although I’m not the sort
to strut the sidewalk alongside
fashion clones
Me, rude? No way,
although I’d rather speak
my mind than opt for diplomatic
clichés
Me, political? No way,
although I’ll always vote
for a party that keeps pre-election
promises
Me, vulgar? No way,
although I might well fart
than break wind among patronising
nouveau riche
Me, forgetful? No way,
although putting a name
to rich and famous people eludes me
when they preen
Me, crude? No way,
although I'll always call
a spade a spade rather than a digging
implement
Me, religious? No way,
although an affinity
with nature has given me a poet's take
on spirituality
Me, arty? No way,
although I love to leave
patterns of words like tattoos where
you’ll let me
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
This post is duplicated on both my general and gay-interest bogs today.
Now, what is it with some people? Not content with trying to put me down because I’m gay and don’t write ‘proper’ modern poetry, some do their best to put me down for the likes of referring to dessert as ‘afters’ which is what we always called it at home when I was growing up. [And why not, since we talk about ‘Starters’?] Similarly, I once asked to see the Voters Register at a library where a supercilious Assistant told me I really meant the Electoral Roll.
Don’t you just hate it when people try to put you down?
Mind you, I’ve even met gay people who have tried to put me down because I don’t camp it up much. Well, I can camp it up as well as anyone else when I’m in the mood, but I’m not a naturally camp guy. I’ve no problem with camp, but anyone who honestly believes that G+A+Y = Camp or someone has to be cheating really does have a problem.
I often recall how, in my teens, I confided to my mother that I was worried sick about an interview with a Careers Officer the next day because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to be when I left school. She just shrugged and said, ‘Try being yourself and you won’t go far wrong.’ She was right, of course, but that was hard for me to admit at the time since I wasn’t being myself at all as being gay was still a criminal offence. I’ve tried to make up for it since.
TATTOO ART
Me, tacky? No way,
although I’m not the sort
to strut the sidewalk alongside
fashion clones
Me, rude? No way,
although I’d rather speak
my mind than opt for diplomatic
clichés
Me, political? No way,
although I’ll always vote
for a party that keeps pre-election
promises
Me, vulgar? No way,
although I might well fart
than break wind among patronising
nouveau riche
Me, forgetful? No way,
although putting a name
to rich and famous people eludes me
when they preen
Me, crude? No way,
although I'll always call
a spade a spade rather than a digging
implement
Me, religious? No way,
although an affinity
with nature has given me a poet's take
on spirituality
Me, arty? No way,
although I love to leave
patterns of words like tattoos where
you’ll let me
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Friday, 11 November 2011
Poppies For Fears
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Today is Armistice Day.
I have written almost as many poems about the tragedy of war as I have about the inspiring quality of love, much influenced by the powerful poems of World War I poets like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Vera Brittain, to name but a few.
The irony cannot be lost on anyone. Given that the horrors of war have been passed on so graphically from generation to generation since, it neither prevented World War II nor this sorry world of ours remaining a battleground.
Today’s poem was written in 2004 and appeared in my 4th collection the following year; it was also selected earlier this year for inclusion in a Forward Press anthology The Colour of War.
This poem has appeared on my general blog before, but not here. Here in the UK, we wear a poppy as symbol of remembrance. Countless popies, countless tears; hopes for a peaceful world shared by millions if tempered by our growing sense of a 21st century no less inclined than any other to rhetoric.
POPPIES FOR FEARS
In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died
for love of country, freedom and their own;
shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied
so we may reap the rewards they have sown
Let’s remember those who never came back,
(sitting comfortably, watching TV);
Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq...
(So much for the lessons of history!)
The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride,
some forgotten, left but to fade away
in pain, loneliness, no one at their side
as fought with them so bravely, won the day
Poppies for remembrance, prayers, shedding tears
and...world peace to put an end to our fears?
[From: A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Today is Armistice Day.
I have written almost as many poems about the tragedy of war as I have about the inspiring quality of love, much influenced by the powerful poems of World War I poets like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Vera Brittain, to name but a few.
The irony cannot be lost on anyone. Given that the horrors of war have been passed on so graphically from generation to generation since, it neither prevented World War II nor this sorry world of ours remaining a battleground.
Today’s poem was written in 2004 and appeared in my 4th collection the following year; it was also selected earlier this year for inclusion in a Forward Press anthology The Colour of War.
This poem has appeared on my general blog before, but not here. Here in the UK, we wear a poppy as symbol of remembrance. Countless popies, countless tears; hopes for a peaceful world shared by millions if tempered by our growing sense of a 21st century no less inclined than any other to rhetoric.
POPPIES FOR FEARS
In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died
for love of country, freedom and their own;
shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied
so we may reap the rewards they have sown
Let’s remember those who never came back,
(sitting comfortably, watching TV);
Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq...
(So much for the lessons of history!)
The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride,
some forgotten, left but to fade away
in pain, loneliness, no one at their side
as fought with them so bravely, won the day
Poppies for remembrance, prayers, shedding tears
and...world peace to put an end to our fears?
[From: A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]
Thursday, 10 November 2011
A Space Odyssey
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This post is duplicated on both blogs today. An earlier version of the poem was written in 2002; it appeared in a Poetry Now [Forward Press] anthology, These Days, in 2004 and in my collection later the same year. I have since revised and reworked the original poem and changed the title.
Regular readers will know that as I prepare posts for the blog, I often find myself making minor or (as in this case) major revisions to poems where earlier versions have already been published. This is not so much a criticism of the first version as, looked at again from a distance of some years, I sometimes feel the original can be improved upon. Some people get in touch to say they prefer the original/s while others may prefer my revision/s but like both; others still, ask why I tinker with poems at all and/or why I settled for the original when it was ‘quite obviously’ the genesis for a different poem altogether. Ah, but it would not have been in the least bit obvious to me at the time I wrote it. I must have been satisfied enough to see it published. Only much later, do I sometimes find myself unhappy with what, yes, I may now see as the genesis of another poem.
As I have said many times, love takes many shapes and forms; of all these, the love of one person for another, sexual and/or platonic makes the greater contribution in mapping out the most wonderful journeys we take across time and space albeit always vulnerable to human error. As for sexuality, it but is one of love’s coordinates along with mutual understanding; it also needs to be up to the task of repudiating if not discarding any socio-cultural-religious elements that would not only point us in another direction but also see us heartsick voyagers in a nightmare.
Needless to say map reading of this particular nature is (or should be) instinctive. At the same time, we need to appreciate that one person’s natural instincts may well be another’s nemesis; if the old adage - where there’s a will, there’s a way - may not always prove to be the case, there is still a lot to be said for at least trying to push existing parameters to accommodate both.
A SPACE ODYSSEY
In the saddest twilight
known to man or woman,
find no gladder omen
than in the sigh of a wistful virgin,
left to watch birds fly
(far too high to identify)
sailing the fairest horizon,
teasing the inner eye
Oh, the beauty, mystery,
privileges and passion of voyagers
in personal space
Glimpses of heaven,
but no word of invitation
or greater loneliness
(nor sweeter) known to humankind;
a hidden planet
where no others may go
and only those we choose
chance getting close
Identifying isolation
among starry splinters of its galaxy,
light years away
So near, yet so far,
grim mortality yet to loose
its stranglehold on us,
allowing us to breathe that more easily
among lush vegetation
of the surreal kind
than where a half dead
imagination applies
Ultimate contradiction,
conjoined isolates hell bent on pushing
parameters of space
Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011
[Note The genesis of this poem (originally under the title, Time To Ourselves) can be found in 1st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
This post is duplicated on both blogs today. An earlier version of the poem was written in 2002; it appeared in a Poetry Now [Forward Press] anthology, These Days, in 2004 and in my collection later the same year. I have since revised and reworked the original poem and changed the title.
Regular readers will know that as I prepare posts for the blog, I often find myself making minor or (as in this case) major revisions to poems where earlier versions have already been published. This is not so much a criticism of the first version as, looked at again from a distance of some years, I sometimes feel the original can be improved upon. Some people get in touch to say they prefer the original/s while others may prefer my revision/s but like both; others still, ask why I tinker with poems at all and/or why I settled for the original when it was ‘quite obviously’ the genesis for a different poem altogether. Ah, but it would not have been in the least bit obvious to me at the time I wrote it. I must have been satisfied enough to see it published. Only much later, do I sometimes find myself unhappy with what, yes, I may now see as the genesis of another poem.
As I have said many times, love takes many shapes and forms; of all these, the love of one person for another, sexual and/or platonic makes the greater contribution in mapping out the most wonderful journeys we take across time and space albeit always vulnerable to human error. As for sexuality, it but is one of love’s coordinates along with mutual understanding; it also needs to be up to the task of repudiating if not discarding any socio-cultural-religious elements that would not only point us in another direction but also see us heartsick voyagers in a nightmare.
Needless to say map reading of this particular nature is (or should be) instinctive. At the same time, we need to appreciate that one person’s natural instincts may well be another’s nemesis; if the old adage - where there’s a will, there’s a way - may not always prove to be the case, there is still a lot to be said for at least trying to push existing parameters to accommodate both.
A SPACE ODYSSEY
In the saddest twilight
known to man or woman,
find no gladder omen
than in the sigh of a wistful virgin,
left to watch birds fly
(far too high to identify)
sailing the fairest horizon,
teasing the inner eye
Oh, the beauty, mystery,
privileges and passion of voyagers
in personal space
Glimpses of heaven,
but no word of invitation
or greater loneliness
(nor sweeter) known to humankind;
a hidden planet
where no others may go
and only those we choose
chance getting close
Identifying isolation
among starry splinters of its galaxy,
light years away
So near, yet so far,
grim mortality yet to loose
its stranglehold on us,
allowing us to breathe that more easily
among lush vegetation
of the surreal kind
than where a half dead
imagination applies
Ultimate contradiction,
conjoined isolates hell bent on pushing
parameters of space
Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011
[Note The genesis of this poem (originally under the title, Time To Ourselves) can be found in 1st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd ed. in preparation.]
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Live Metaphor, Dead Ends
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Walls are often used as a metaphor for division, separation and disharmony. Tragically, this sorry world of ours is far too fond of taking its metaphors literally.
In August, German Chancellor Angela Merkel and President Christian Wulff joined hundreds at a memorial marking the 50th anniversary of the building of the Berlin Wall. Today marks the 22nd anniversary of its fall on November 9th 1989. Again, our thoughts are with German people everywhere.
A 28-mile (45 km) barrier dividing Germany's capital was built during August 1961 and patrolled by armed guards to prevent East Berliners fleeing to the West. But as Communism in the Soviet Republic and Eastern Europe began to crumble, pressure mounted on the East German authorities to open the Berlin border. It was not until November 9th 1989, that the Wall that had divided a city for over 30 years was finally demolished. Cause for celebration, yes, but we should also remember all those who lost their lives trying to reach West Berlin from the other side of the infamous wall.
The world hoped never to see the like of the Berlin Wall again, but the Israeli Government had other ideas.
It may be arguable whether the construction of the wall built by Israel in the occupied Palestinian Territory, including in and around East Jerusalem, is contrary to international law, but it is certainly no less inhumane (or provocative) than the Berlin Wall all those years ago. Yes, the reasons (or excuses) for its construction are different but the people on either side are no less human than those Berliners; they, too, deserve better. Is it not high time Israel put its paranoia on one side and entered into peace talks with the Palestinians with a genuine aim that they should succeed instead of making token gestures meant to keep the rest of the world off its back?
[Incidentally, I showed this blog entry to an Israeli student who happens to agree that the wall should come down sooner rather than later if any peace talks with the Palestinians stand a realistic chance of sucess.]
Time and again, on the domestic front and by following various socio-cultural-religious agenda world-wide, human nature is inclined to act on its penchant for building walls of a metaphorical kind, and no less divisive for that; a preoccupation with this particular living metaphor as a weapon for wrecking if not destroying human lives has to be one of its greater tragedies.
The world deplored the Berlin Wall and cheered when it finally came down, vowing to learn lessons that had penetrated even its thick skin.
‘Never again!’ the world’s media continues to cry. Oh? Tell that to the Palestinians. Tell it also to those friends and lovers whose respective socio-cultural-religious family backgrounds will not tolerate them being together even in a 21st century multicultural society...
Yes, the Berlin Wall was weeping wound not only across a wonderful city, dividing its wonderful people, but also a wonderful world, dividing us all. If its fall was meant to be a symbol of unity, isn’t it high time the world took a leaf from those long-suffering Berliner’s book and set about uniting in respect for its differences of opinion and lifestyle instead of fighting over them?
This poem is a villanelle.
LIVE METAPHOR, DEAD ENDS
At a wall dripping blood and tears,
humanity, for its sins, dares not forget;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Where democracy disappears,
political ambition refuting Terror’s debt
at a wall dripping blood and tears
Where humanity to victory steers,
political agendas conspiring to thwart;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Divisions perpetuated for years,
brave new worlds apart since last we met
at a wall dripping blood and tears
Where Time’s kinder mist clears,
see guards with orders to shoot on sight;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Where Freedom’s fair head rears,
its worst enemy some socio-cultural tenet
at a wall dripping blood and tears;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Walls are often used as a metaphor for division, separation and disharmony. Tragically, this sorry world of ours is far too fond of taking its metaphors literally.
In August, German Chancellor Angela Merkel and President Christian Wulff joined hundreds at a memorial marking the 50th anniversary of the building of the Berlin Wall. Today marks the 22nd anniversary of its fall on November 9th 1989. Again, our thoughts are with German people everywhere.
A 28-mile (45 km) barrier dividing Germany's capital was built during August 1961 and patrolled by armed guards to prevent East Berliners fleeing to the West. But as Communism in the Soviet Republic and Eastern Europe began to crumble, pressure mounted on the East German authorities to open the Berlin border. It was not until November 9th 1989, that the Wall that had divided a city for over 30 years was finally demolished. Cause for celebration, yes, but we should also remember all those who lost their lives trying to reach West Berlin from the other side of the infamous wall.
The world hoped never to see the like of the Berlin Wall again, but the Israeli Government had other ideas.
It may be arguable whether the construction of the wall built by Israel in the occupied Palestinian Territory, including in and around East Jerusalem, is contrary to international law, but it is certainly no less inhumane (or provocative) than the Berlin Wall all those years ago. Yes, the reasons (or excuses) for its construction are different but the people on either side are no less human than those Berliners; they, too, deserve better. Is it not high time Israel put its paranoia on one side and entered into peace talks with the Palestinians with a genuine aim that they should succeed instead of making token gestures meant to keep the rest of the world off its back?
[Incidentally, I showed this blog entry to an Israeli student who happens to agree that the wall should come down sooner rather than later if any peace talks with the Palestinians stand a realistic chance of sucess.]
Time and again, on the domestic front and by following various socio-cultural-religious agenda world-wide, human nature is inclined to act on its penchant for building walls of a metaphorical kind, and no less divisive for that; a preoccupation with this particular living metaphor as a weapon for wrecking if not destroying human lives has to be one of its greater tragedies.
The world deplored the Berlin Wall and cheered when it finally came down, vowing to learn lessons that had penetrated even its thick skin.
‘Never again!’ the world’s media continues to cry. Oh? Tell that to the Palestinians. Tell it also to those friends and lovers whose respective socio-cultural-religious family backgrounds will not tolerate them being together even in a 21st century multicultural society...
Yes, the Berlin Wall was weeping wound not only across a wonderful city, dividing its wonderful people, but also a wonderful world, dividing us all. If its fall was meant to be a symbol of unity, isn’t it high time the world took a leaf from those long-suffering Berliner’s book and set about uniting in respect for its differences of opinion and lifestyle instead of fighting over them?
This poem is a villanelle.
LIVE METAPHOR, DEAD ENDS
At a wall dripping blood and tears,
humanity, for its sins, dares not forget;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Where democracy disappears,
political ambition refuting Terror’s debt
at a wall dripping blood and tears
Where humanity to victory steers,
political agendas conspiring to thwart;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Divisions perpetuated for years,
brave new worlds apart since last we met
at a wall dripping blood and tears
Where Time’s kinder mist clears,
see guards with orders to shoot on sight;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Where Freedom’s fair head rears,
its worst enemy some socio-cultural tenet
at a wall dripping blood and tears;
live metaphor for the world’s fears
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
Where A Monster Feeds
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
The banks may be mostly to blame for the credit crunch that first opened its jaws in 2008, but the real monster in the eyes of many Europeans (including myself) is the European Parliament.
The eyes of the world may well be on Greece and Italy at this moment in time, but they do not stand alone where the Economics of Power and Politics of Blame are (frequently) seen to rear their ugly heads....
Dare I suggest there is a need to tame the monster to save the Euro? In other words, there needs to be a cull of its more corrupt and/or inept elements...
This poem is a villanelle.
WHERE A MONSTER FEEDS
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair,
struggling to reassure the world;
Europeans, fighting despair
Crisis an ascending stair,
stability, a high risk password;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair
Political in-fighting clear,
Brussels, a theatre of the absurd;
Europeans, fighting despair
Its ineptitude stripped bare,
too few voices of reason heard;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair
Flushed out of devious cover,
MEPs, for jobs running scared;
Europeans, fighting despair
Even the Economics of Power
found wanting on Paradise Road;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair.
Europeans, fighting despair
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
The banks may be mostly to blame for the credit crunch that first opened its jaws in 2008, but the real monster in the eyes of many Europeans (including myself) is the European Parliament.
The eyes of the world may well be on Greece and Italy at this moment in time, but they do not stand alone where the Economics of Power and Politics of Blame are (frequently) seen to rear their ugly heads....
Dare I suggest there is a need to tame the monster to save the Euro? In other words, there needs to be a cull of its more corrupt and/or inept elements...
This poem is a villanelle.
WHERE A MONSTER FEEDS
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair,
struggling to reassure the world;
Europeans, fighting despair
Crisis an ascending stair,
stability, a high risk password;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair
Political in-fighting clear,
Brussels, a theatre of the absurd;
Europeans, fighting despair
Its ineptitude stripped bare,
too few voices of reason heard;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair
Flushed out of devious cover,
MEPs, for jobs running scared;
Europeans, fighting despair
Even the Economics of Power
found wanting on Paradise Road;
Eurozone, in Debt’s dark lair.
Europeans, fighting despair
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Sunday, 6 November 2011
The Rebel
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I will be 66 years-old on the winter solstice. The older I get, the more I not only admire the sheer energy of youth, but also regret the subduing of its rage in me against a world that continues to be divided by a significant minority of one-upmanship in its political, religious, entrepreneurial and celebrity cultures; not content to con the more vulnerable among the rest of us into aspiring to a copycat scenario, those among its ranks (they know who they are) have little if any affinity with but plainly relish adopting a patronising attitude towards the majority who do not succeed.
Well, if that ‘success’, give me failure any day.
Take the anti-capitalist protestors camped outside St Paul’s cathedral here in London, for example; most if not all of them are young people. While many of us may agree with the way they are raising the profile of just about everyone’s discontent with the way capitalism has been left to show its uglier side in recent times, how many of us are willing to give up a warm bed in winter to drive the point home? I am ashamed to say, not me.
This poem is a kenning
THE REBEL
I penetrate lies,
exposing home truths brushed aside
by those who would keep me
in a cage custom-built by generations
in remembrance of the worst
of times past, likely to catch up with us
where I thirst for a progress
that puts peace, liberty and equality
above self-interest
I conspire with reason
to drive paths through chaos to places
my peers can gather,
sound out those who would prefer
the world’s changes
ring to bring hearts and minds
to their senses
rather than impress judges in some
rigged reality show
I yell to make myself heard
above a clamour of insidious ambition
and darker emotions
driving mortality to prove itself
while it still can
if missing those greater aspirations
to which we are born,
keys to a common world with respect
for its differences
Rebel, put down for my take on truth,
vulnerable to its flaws, call me Youth
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
I will be 66 years-old on the winter solstice. The older I get, the more I not only admire the sheer energy of youth, but also regret the subduing of its rage in me against a world that continues to be divided by a significant minority of one-upmanship in its political, religious, entrepreneurial and celebrity cultures; not content to con the more vulnerable among the rest of us into aspiring to a copycat scenario, those among its ranks (they know who they are) have little if any affinity with but plainly relish adopting a patronising attitude towards the majority who do not succeed.
Well, if that ‘success’, give me failure any day.
Take the anti-capitalist protestors camped outside St Paul’s cathedral here in London, for example; most if not all of them are young people. While many of us may agree with the way they are raising the profile of just about everyone’s discontent with the way capitalism has been left to show its uglier side in recent times, how many of us are willing to give up a warm bed in winter to drive the point home? I am ashamed to say, not me.
This poem is a kenning
THE REBEL
I penetrate lies,
exposing home truths brushed aside
by those who would keep me
in a cage custom-built by generations
in remembrance of the worst
of times past, likely to catch up with us
where I thirst for a progress
that puts peace, liberty and equality
above self-interest
I conspire with reason
to drive paths through chaos to places
my peers can gather,
sound out those who would prefer
the world’s changes
ring to bring hearts and minds
to their senses
rather than impress judges in some
rigged reality show
I yell to make myself heard
above a clamour of insidious ambition
and darker emotions
driving mortality to prove itself
while it still can
if missing those greater aspirations
to which we are born,
keys to a common world with respect
for its differences
Rebel, put down for my take on truth,
vulnerable to its flaws, call me Youth
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Thursday, 3 November 2011
When Hands Speak Louder Than Words
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Some readers have been kind enough to ask about my prostate cancer. In spite of a urinary problem that may or may not be a direct result of hormone therapy, I am fine, just tired through lack of sleep. I was at the hospital yesterday and all the indications are that that the therapy has brought my PSA level right down. So I am sticking to my later decision not to have radiotherapy after all; for now at any rate, as my cancer is a low-medium spread rather than high. With luck, I may not need another hormone implant for another five years or so. Fingers crossed...
Meanwhile...
I often knock the hypocrisy of religious minded people whose lack of human understanding makes them unfit for purpose in the eyes of those of us against whose way of life and take on spirituality they think nothing of launching a character assassination at every opportunity; not just upon gay people either, but on just about anyone who does not tick all their narrow little boxes.
At the same time, I am also quick to point out there are exceptions to every rule; in this case, kind, open hearted and open minded people of all persuasions who seem to grasp that their God is Love more readily than their bigoted colleagues and counterparts in other religious echelons.
This poem is (yes, another) villanelle.
WHEN HANDS SPEAK LOUDER THEN WORDS
Everyone paused to gossip and stare,
(backed up by umbrellas in pouring rain)
that day we held hands at the fair
We tried to make out we hadn’t a care
(stomachs turning over again and again);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
Proud of a love we had sworn to share
(grateful to heaven for shielding our pain)
that day we held hands at the fair
Some yobs called on us to kiss if we dare
(so we did, just as the sun joined in again);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
Other voices labelled us a disgraceful pair
(a cry taken up with much indignant distain)
that day we held hands at the fair
A local priest greeted us then and there
(friendly smile and handshake like an amen);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
that day we held hands at the fair
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Some readers have been kind enough to ask about my prostate cancer. In spite of a urinary problem that may or may not be a direct result of hormone therapy, I am fine, just tired through lack of sleep. I was at the hospital yesterday and all the indications are that that the therapy has brought my PSA level right down. So I am sticking to my later decision not to have radiotherapy after all; for now at any rate, as my cancer is a low-medium spread rather than high. With luck, I may not need another hormone implant for another five years or so. Fingers crossed...
Meanwhile...
I often knock the hypocrisy of religious minded people whose lack of human understanding makes them unfit for purpose in the eyes of those of us against whose way of life and take on spirituality they think nothing of launching a character assassination at every opportunity; not just upon gay people either, but on just about anyone who does not tick all their narrow little boxes.
At the same time, I am also quick to point out there are exceptions to every rule; in this case, kind, open hearted and open minded people of all persuasions who seem to grasp that their God is Love more readily than their bigoted colleagues and counterparts in other religious echelons.
This poem is (yes, another) villanelle.
WHEN HANDS SPEAK LOUDER THEN WORDS
Everyone paused to gossip and stare,
(backed up by umbrellas in pouring rain)
that day we held hands at the fair
We tried to make out we hadn’t a care
(stomachs turning over again and again);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
Proud of a love we had sworn to share
(grateful to heaven for shielding our pain)
that day we held hands at the fair
Some yobs called on us to kiss if we dare
(so we did, just as the sun joined in again);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
Other voices labelled us a disgraceful pair
(a cry taken up with much indignant distain)
that day we held hands at the fair
A local priest greeted us then and there
(friendly smile and handshake like an amen);
everyone paused to gossip and stare
that day we held hands at the fair
Copyright R. N. Taber 2010
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
Codicil
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I only finished writing today’s post (and poem) this morning and it is duplicated on both blogs.
My idea of life after death has nothing whatever to do with religion, so I have no worries about some God kicking me out of Heaven because I am gay, as some followers of some religions would have it. Even as a child attending Sunday School, I could never accept the idea of a personified Heaven and was scolded for daring to suggest that it might be somewhat overcrowded; the same could be said of Hell, of course.
Everyone to their own point of view, I say. But if I can respect a religious person’s notion of an after-life, why can’t they respect mine? Why should sexuality have anything more to do with how we get on with our lives than how we might (or might not) fare afterwards?
Whatever, this poem relates (as others of mine do) my spiritual relationship with death. As I grow old(er) I do think of death more often, but not morbidly; on the contrary, with growing reassurance.
This particular poem was inspired by the news of a dear former colleague’s sudden death only last week.
CODICIL
Come a day, fair dawn
will break and I’ll not wake to see
or hear a skylark singing
about living this life to the full,
a ray of sunlight breaking
through a chink in curtains closed
to keep out anxious night
kissing me (goodbye?) one last time,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to that Eternity of Faith and legend,
world without end?
Come a day, high noon
will find Apollo beating to a pulp
all manner of humanity
pacing floors or crouched at desks
over their computers,
demanding reasons for various crises
and discovering technology
is not the saviour we like to make out,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to that cyber world we seek to replace
nature’s space?
Come a day, amber twilight
will hint at the beginnings and endings
of all things, we cannot know
if what the nightingale sings foretells
peace and love for us
or does its bitter-sweet sorrow mourn
a long, lonely, wait
without our ever knowing for what,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to a comforting embrace of spirituality
promising immortality?
Come a day that would part us
for some mythical Forever, but look
and be sure to find me
in sunny skies and woodlands alive
with songs of love and peace,
where rivers run and swallows fly,
in shop windows as you pass by,
on TV shows we’d have to laugh at or cry,
and should you miss me there,
fall back on humanity’s customised
version of Forever, and find me waiting
in your mirror
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
I only finished writing today’s post (and poem) this morning and it is duplicated on both blogs.
My idea of life after death has nothing whatever to do with religion, so I have no worries about some God kicking me out of Heaven because I am gay, as some followers of some religions would have it. Even as a child attending Sunday School, I could never accept the idea of a personified Heaven and was scolded for daring to suggest that it might be somewhat overcrowded; the same could be said of Hell, of course.
Everyone to their own point of view, I say. But if I can respect a religious person’s notion of an after-life, why can’t they respect mine? Why should sexuality have anything more to do with how we get on with our lives than how we might (or might not) fare afterwards?
Whatever, this poem relates (as others of mine do) my spiritual relationship with death. As I grow old(er) I do think of death more often, but not morbidly; on the contrary, with growing reassurance.
This particular poem was inspired by the news of a dear former colleague’s sudden death only last week.
CODICIL
Come a day, fair dawn
will break and I’ll not wake to see
or hear a skylark singing
about living this life to the full,
a ray of sunlight breaking
through a chink in curtains closed
to keep out anxious night
kissing me (goodbye?) one last time,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to that Eternity of Faith and legend,
world without end?
Come a day, high noon
will find Apollo beating to a pulp
all manner of humanity
pacing floors or crouched at desks
over their computers,
demanding reasons for various crises
and discovering technology
is not the saviour we like to make out,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to that cyber world we seek to replace
nature’s space?
Come a day, amber twilight
will hint at the beginnings and endings
of all things, we cannot know
if what the nightingale sings foretells
peace and love for us
or does its bitter-sweet sorrow mourn
a long, lonely, wait
without our ever knowing for what,
and where then will I be
when you look for me in relation
to a comforting embrace of spirituality
promising immortality?
Come a day that would part us
for some mythical Forever, but look
and be sure to find me
in sunny skies and woodlands alive
with songs of love and peace,
where rivers run and swallows fly,
in shop windows as you pass by,
on TV shows we’d have to laugh at or cry,
and should you miss me there,
fall back on humanity’s customised
version of Forever, and find me waiting
in your mirror
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
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