A Poet's Blog: Roger N.Taber shares his thoughts & poems...

Landscape Of Survival

2012-02-02T00:28:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Among all our cues we take fromnature, survival has to be one of the most if not the most important.

LANDSCAPE OF SURVIVAL

Watch as spring lays a path intosummer,

and chicks in leafy branches learnto fly

in a world out of step with EarthMother,

carbon footprint across land, seaand sky

Watch buds open and burst intoflower

closing at dusk, woken again atdawn

by the kisses and tears of EarthMother

for each child lost, found, dying,reborn

Watch as the world slowly opens itsheart

summer rest on its laurels fair andfrayed

anxious for Earth Mother to playher part,

helping restore foundations poorlylaid…

Watch autumn weep and winter keepvigil;

windows on the landscape ofsurvival

[From On the Battlefields of Love byR. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

The Voice

2012-02-01T01:43:00.000-08:00

http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber

Poets areoften accused of romanticising death although their critics often mistake a take on death for one on pain; there is noting in the least romantic about pain and suffering. Me, I don’t romanticise death, but neitherwill I ignore it. Death is much a part of life as life itself; it should not bea taboo subject or confused with pain.

Surely,the more we get used to the idea of mortality, the better prepared (if onlyrelatively speaking) we are to deal with it?

Death,like life, is a mystery about which those of us who do not subscribe to anyreligious Faith can only speculate.

Judgingby feedback, there are an awful lot of people like me out there who feel muchthe same way.

This poemlast appeared on my general blog in 2008 and reappears today for no other reason than I feel it deserves an airing. After all, is it not one ofone of life’s greater ironies that it should be death that has neverdiscriminated between any of us, no matter our colour, creed, sex orsexuality...?

THE VOICE

I heard avoice singing,

wonderedwhose it might be?

(I couldnot see)

I heard avoice laughing,

wonderedwhose it might be?

(I couldnot see)

I heard avoice crying,

wonderedwhose it might be?

(I couldnot see)

I heard avoice praying,

wonderedwhat (if anything)

to dowith me?

I heardthe voice dying,

wonderedwhere it might go?

One dayI’ll know...

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2007]

Marking Time

2012-01-31T01:35:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’spoem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 so I guess now is as good a timeas any to give it a airing albeit a revised version.

I am 66years-old now. When I consider the discrepancy between what I have achieved andwhat I’d once hoped to achieve, my heartsinks...until I consider various off-shoots of that unfulfilled potential, and then thetree doesn’t look half so bad after all.

MARKINGTIME

Youth, with dreamy eyes
and wind in the hair,
soaking up heaven’s store
of tears for cares

likeleaves untimely fallen

onslim shoulders

Likea sapling in a breeze,
see it bend, never break;
watch leaves bud and grow;
now green, now reds,

nowgold for each mortal

breathwe take

Norshall its season cease,
grown older, stronger;
a bold heart, harbouring
the finer seeds

ofCreation for nature’s

nurturing

Spiritedtree, proud and free,
a living part of earth’s
finer tapestry, sheltering all
(no one’s enemy)

thoughthey carve initials

onyour body

Forever,tall and beautiful
in the mind’s eye;
where lashed to dark skies,
a freedom won

byegg cries sure to archive

itsleafy passions

Potentialin its prime, marking

time

CopyrightR. N. Taber 2004; 2011

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier versionthat appears in 1^st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2004 (and on the blog); 2^nded. in preparation. NB 2^nd eds. of my poetry collections will not beavailable until after 2015 and will contain revisions of some poems. Meanwhile,signed 1^st eds. remain available to blog readers at a generous blogdiscount on (retail price + shipping). Contact rogertab@aol.comwith ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.]

Accomplices To Illusion

2012-01-30T02:27:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s post is duplicated on bothpoetry blogs as several readers of both have been in touch asking who it was tookthe photo for the cover of On theBattlefields of Love that I posted the other day. Well, it was my close friend Graham who alsodesigned the cover for my previous collection, Accomplices to Illusion (see below).

Graham has also takenresponsibility for my 7^th major collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be published in the spring. [I willpost an image once the collection becomes available.] In his job as a graphicdesigner for a notable Charity, Graham has typeset and produced covers for anumber of books for which the Charity has cause to be grateful since there isno denying that his work has encouraged sales and helped raise much neededrevenue.

Now, regular readers will know thatwhen I started publishing my collections in 2001, I wondered whether I wouldsell many if any copies since various poetry publishers were ‘unhappy’with the idea of my combining gay-interest with more ‘conventional’ themes inone collection; for this reason, I created my own imprint and went aheadanyway. I am delighted to say that I have not only recovered costs with eachcollection, but also sold enough copies to pay for new print runs and furtherpublications.

Sales of poetry will never beremarkable, but I remain verypleased, especially with positive feedback from gay and straight readers alike.Well, the occasional heterosexual poetry lover has complained about the fact that I include gay material, but thishas been the exception rather than the rule. It feels good to have provenvarious publishers wrong who thought there would be little or no interest inpoetry on a gay theme.’ Not only that, but also the fact that I often write‘form’ poems, use rhyme a lot and even my blank verse poems and many of often bear little resemblance tothe critics’ notion of what comprises modern poetry. If that means I am I amsomething of an anachronism in poetry circles, I remain a shameless one.

Although my poetry books are onlyon sale in the UK (and also available in many public libraries), I also sellcopies to overseas readers (via PayPal) who email me with enquiries to rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in thesubject field. ; I give my blog readers a discount of 35% of (retail cost + shipping) so please make surethat any initial enquiry includes where in the world you live.

ACCOMPLICES TO ILLUSION

Snowflakes, like miniaturechandeliers

performing a magic show

Silvery shadows, dancing acrossfields

like the homeless at a party

North star, a shiny nugget of whitegold;

moon slopes like ski runs

Owl, hunting down the ghosts ofspring

to what passes for their fate

White Rabbit knows a trick or two,finds

sanctuary in a storybook

Carrot-nose snowman kept busyposing

for Christmas cards

Churches, mosques, synagogues -iced

like birthday cakes

First light of day, Apollo startsthrowing

cold water on it all

Party over, the homeless left towork what

magic they can on a world in denial

[From: Accomplice to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Keeper Of The Flame

2012-01-29T01:47:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s post is duplicated on both poetry blogs.

After a sleepless night on Friday, I managed to get a reasonablenight’s sleep last night so am feeling less washed out today. I don’t mindanyone throwing a late-night party now and then, but ALL night is not fair onthe neighbours in a residential area.

Now, I promised everyone a new poem so this post is duplicated onboth poetry blogs.

Meanwhile...

Reader, ‘William’ who has to use an Internet café to go on-linehas asked me to repeat the link to my YouTube channel. I hope you enjoy it. My friend and cameramanGraham and I are hoping to record more poems ‘on location’ for YouTube duringthis year:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Rakingthe heart’s embers is easy enough. It takes but one precious memory to stir theflames of a love that was never meant to fulfil its promises...until, with allthe passion of regret, we can but watch them fall away.

Now,a man or woman may be gay or straight, but neither is more or less vulnerablethan the other to a love that, for whatever reason, is a secret only two willever share.

KEEPEROF THE FLAME

I pileon wood,

and theflames leap higher,

bringingus together

as wewere that summer

we’dmeet up again

andagain to go swimming

inthe sunshine,

walkingin the rain,

playingwith fire

fromeach dawn to sunset,

now flaring,now fading

like love’swistful voices,

its weepyechoes

Ipile on wood,

and theflames are dancing,

loversromancing

as wewere that summer

we’dcherish

precious moments together,

eachone stolen

fromthose who thought

theyknew us,

yet neveronce suspecting

wewere lovers,

not justbest of friends

hammingit up

I runout of wood,

too soonthe flames starting

tofall away

likean audience once a play

hasreached an ending

welldeserving of applause

evenif no one cares

toadmit the staged goings-on

weretoo close

forcomfort, disturbing

vulnerableghosts

evertearful for being shut

onsome secret closet

Fire smouldering,but a flicker

bravingit out

Copyright R. N.Taber 2012

Where The Jury Is Still Out

2012-01-28T02:43:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I am still recovering from a BADcold while trying to proof my new collection ready for publication inFebruary/March. I am also still suffering some side effects of hormone therapyfor my prostate cancer, but no real worries there. As this wasn’t enough, Ihave been kept awake all night by a nasty, thoughtless, neighbour in the flatupstairs and had to use six buckets of water to clear vomit from the stepsoutside. [Nor is this the first time/] I would have gone upstairs and confrontedhim and his guests in the early hours, but he has behaved very aggressivelytowards me in the past so I’m afraid I chickened out. He is, after all, morethan half my age, and I am not feeling very strong right now.

So you will understand why I haven’tthe energy to publish two posts today and [again, sorry] this one is duplicatedon both blogs. Hopefully, it may be of some interest to all readers.

As I do with poems, from time totime, I have revised this one since an earlier version appeared on the blogs in2010. Regular readers will be only too familiar with the sentiments expressed.

Political correctness can be such apain sometimes, responsible as it is for many people being afraid to say whatthey really think; in public, anyway. For example, I would rather know ifsomeone is a homophobe or how am I to know he or she is an enemy. Moreimportantly, how am I supposed to know unless people are honest with me to myface that I need to encourage them to develop a more human, positive, andresponsible attitude towards sexuality? Also,too many people are quick to play the political correctness card as soon asthey feel things aren’t going their way. Take my noisy neighbour for example. Iam in no doubt that he would try and play the race card were I to make a formalcomplaint against him.

Incidentally, I can honestly say Ihave never played the gay card, and never would. [Equal Opportunities anddiversity legislation here in the West has its flaws, and is often abused.]

As for the homophobes among us, makinga friend of an enemy is just about the best Public Relations gets on any fieldof play, but you have to know your enemy first.

[NB Look out for a new (love) poemtomorrow.]

WHERE THE JURY IS STILL OUT

Some people say there van be nosafe haven

for gay men and women in that placesome need

to call Heaven

Some people say no God would evertolerate

the kind of so-called ‘sin’ perpetratedby such as

gay men and women

Some people say Holy Books are ameasure

of spirituality compensating forany open-minded

take on homosexuality

So who are they that so love to pithumankind

against its own on the grounds ofthis socio-culture

or that religion?

So who are they who rail againstthose gay men

and women that are but as we are,and by nature’s

rule, not ours?

So who are they who say they sidewith doves

of peace, and then go to war withsuch honourable

intentions?

Let them speak who claim to knowhow God

will have his way with men andwomen who happen

to be gay

Let them speak who would railagainst those

of us who are gay, and don’t letpolitical correctness

win the day

Let them speak who say gays cannotbe forgiven

for, oh, such a sin on the groundsof this socio-culture

or that religion

No matter who or where, allhumankind deserves

a voice, gay folks too, each of usgifted with a feeling

for freedom

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010;2011

A Measure Of Creativity

2012-01-27T02:17:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

This post is duplicated on bothpoetry blogs today.

For anyone interested ingay-interest crime fiction, my new serial Blasphemy starts on my fiction blog today; readthe synopsis (on a previous post) to see if it is your cup of tea:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile...

Several readers (gay and straightalike) who have been kind enough to say they enjoyed my last poetry collection On the Battlefields of Love have also asked about the location forthe cover design. The photois of the folly at Virginia Water.

An annoying oversight on my part meant thepoem was not included in the collection as originally intended; it will appearin a new collection Trackingthe Torchbearer to bepublished in the spring. [As with all my collections, it will contain100+ poems in themed sections for easy reading and will include gay-interestmaterial.]

Virginia Water is apretty village in Surrey, UK, just a few miles from London, and boasts somevery affluent residents; it takes its name from the lake in nearby WindsorGreat Park. The lake's name wastransferred from a previous stream, which was probably named after Elizabeth I,the 'Virgin Queen'.

The folly in the cover photo is not your usual folly (a folly is abuilding or part of a building that is built for no purpose whatsoever, and canlook a bit ornate). This folly is authentic Roman ruins, and aren't even fromEngland; they were acquired in the 19th Century from their original location inthe Roman city of Leptis Magna which is very close to where Tripoli in Libya istoday. The ruins were first taken to the British Museum in London where theystayed for some years, before an architect 'rebuilt' them alongside the lake atVirginia Water.

This poemis a villanelle, and last appeared on the blogs in 2010.

A MEASURE OF CREATIVITY

Like a folly satirising ourhistory,

love takes to task its fears;

nature’s last laugh on humanity

Find the world’s blackest comedy

imposed on we poor actors

like a folly satirising our history

Glistening like a vision ofeternity,

a lake of glad-sad tears;

nature’s last laugh on humanity

Watch how feisty skies effectively

feed on the world’s prayers

like a folly satirising our history

Hear the trees compose a melody

falling mostly on cloth ears;

nature’s last laugh on humanity

Deception, left to cascade prettily

down centuries of applause,

like a folly satirising ourhistory;

nature’s last laugh on humanity

(Virginia Water, UK. May 9th 2009)

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2009

Feeding The Dragon

2012-01-26T01:36:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I am not too well at the moment,which may account for a degree of writer’s block. I was unable to write a poemfor the Chinese New Year of the Dragon that began on Monday, but hope myChinese readers will enjoy this poem and accept the good wishes that come withit.

The poem was written in SanFrancisco during a visit there in 1999. True, it relates to a journey by cable car, but another of my trip’smany highlights was time spent in Chinatown where everyone made me feel verywelcome. Here in London’s Chinatown, I don’t get the same feeling, yet I feelno hostility either, only a sense of distance.

I worked for some years with alovely Chinese lady and it sometimes saddens me that the Chinese community inLondon is so self-contained. At the same time, I have to say I envy the kind ofclose-knit community that I have rarely experienced in British societygenerally.

Having written and published poems to marknatural disasters and political flashpoints in China, it is a pleasure to posta poem about the sheer enjoyment of life, despite its ups and downs. I can buthope readers will find it in keeping with this Year of the Dragon.

FEEDINGTHE DRAGON

Goodtimes clinging to the rail,

headingfor the skies

on adragon's tail;

sunon the face, a joy to share

withnations of the world

in acable car;

laughterhas a language

ofits own second

tonone;

asense of integration,

onlyhalfway

toheaven;

finally,at journey’s end,

wholeworld rushes in

on acamera lens

ifonly to mark the same

oldboundaries

yetagain;

scalesof a dragon

mistingover

thesun

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2012

[Note: This poem has been slightlyrevised from an earlier version that appears in 1^st eds. of First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002;2^nd ed. in preparation. NB New editions of my collections will not be available until after 2015 and will contain revisions of some poems. Meanwhile, some 1st eds. remain available at a generous blogger discount; email rogertab@aol.com with 'Blog Reader' in the subject field.]

The Ribbon

2012-01-25T01:16:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Regular readers will be well aware ofmy love for nature; not just because I am a poet and it is expected of poets,but because nature offers me the spirituality and inspiration I never found inreligion or, rather, the majority of its followers, long before I acknowledgedto myself that I am gay and would be made to run the gamut of religious consciencethat so many followers of all the world religions plainly enjoyimposing on gay men and women.

THERIBBON

Astwilight favoured us

amisty golden rain,

ajoyful hymn to peace

roseabove its pain,

freelyacknowledging

thatwe had come

tothat last, lonely parting

attime’s guileless whim,

bringingus less prepared

thanwe should be

thougheach of us warned

enoughof an eternity

stretchinglike a pink ribbon

inEarth Mother’s hair

againsta near-far horizon,

beckoningus where

therich and poor, beggars,

(eventhieves) along

withsaints and murderers

comefor a reckoning

they’vespent temporality

earningor avoiding

onthat axis of morality

knownfor bending

rulesand taking advantage

ofcloth and kin

overanxious to salvage

thespoils of Creation;

fadingfast, that twilight,

waiting,like us…

onmoon or stars to light

upthe darkness

sowe can see a way clear

tobe sure the ribbon

forEarth Mother’s hair

isnever forgotten

Orlove (ever) forsaken

CopyrightR. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be publishednext month.]

Dark Secrets

2012-01-24T02:16:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’spost is again duplicated on both poetry blogs.

Somereaders who also enjoy my fiction blog have been in touch to ask for moredetails about my novel Catching up withMurder published by Raider International last year. So I am publishing asynopsis (+ poem) here today.

Icannot publish it as an e-book until next year (due to publishing contract) andmay well serialise it on the blog eventually. Meanwhile, interested readers whomay be interested can buy the novel fromhttp://amazon.com & http://www.barnesandnoble.com/ (overseas)while UK readers can purchase from http://www.amazon.co.uk;all readers can access at the publishers’ own site: http://raiderpublishing.com/Home_Page.html

CATCHINGUP WITH MURDER: a novel inthree acts(approx. 100,000 words)

ByRoger N. Taber

SYNOPSIS:

Thenovel divides itself naturally into three acts. Act One commences with a young woman,JULIE SIMPSON, asking retired Chief Inspector FRED WINTER to investigate thedeath of an aunt, RUTH TEMPLE, found dead in her bath. Since a large amount ofalcohol was found in Ruth’s body, the coroner records a verdict of accidentaldeath. Julie thinks otherwise but cannotconvince Winter at first...

OnceWinter is on the case, he not only embarks on various avenues of enquiryregarding Ruth Temple but is also reunited with an old flame CAROL BRADY whosehusband had been murdered some years ago and whose son LIAM has been killed ina car accident although no body recovered and assumed washed out to sea. Onepotential lead after another leads to the same dead end, a village on the southcoast called Monks Tallow. Moreover, Winter starts to suspect that Liam Bradyis not only alive but inextricably linked to a series of tragic ‘coincidences’there.

ActTwo nowtakes the reader back twenty years to the early 1980s. A young man, RALPHCOTTER, shoots his friend, SEAN BRADY, at Brady's home, witnessed by Brady'syoung son, LIAM. Cotter, a married,closet homosexual, is terrified that Brady will expose him. Cotter runs to hislover, Darren “Daz” HORTON for help. They head for a cottage belonging toHorton’s aunt. (The aunt is visiting her daughter in New Zealand so the cottageis empty). En route, they stop to give a lift to a woman, SARAH MANNERS, whosecar has broken down in a storm. Shortly afterwards, the car skids and smashesinto a tree, killing Sarah. The two menbury the body and Cotter evades capture by taking her identity. Darren’s aunt dies and he inherits thecottage. He and Cotter live there, happily enough, as man and ‘wife’ in anobscure English village called...Monks Tallow.

Indue course, the past catches up with Cotter and Horton, driving them to committhree more murders.

ActThreefollows Fred Winter to Monks Tallow where he slowly pieces together this jigsawof audacious masquerade and murder while inadvertently putting himself andloved ones in mortal danger...

Copyright R. N.Taber 2007

Meanwhile...

Here’sa poem about dark secrets if not the necessarily as dark as those that Hortonand Cotter hug to themselves for so long. For me, as regular readers well know,one of my darkest secrets was once my sexuality. I had acknowledged to myselfthat I am gay by the time I was 14 years-old.

Inthose days, same sex relationships were a criminal offence here in the UK.Throughout my teenage years, I told neither family nor friends. I wasn’tashamed, just scared. Even as a young adult, it would still be some years beforeI’d find the self-confidence to come out once and for all. It had been drummedinto me during my vulnerable formative years that being gay was something dirtyif not perverted.

Withinmy family I only ever discussed my sexuality with my mother just a few yearsbefore she died of cancer in 1976; she warned me against telling my father orbrother. It took a severe nervous breakdown in my early 30s before I came outof that dark, lonely closet once and for all.

This poem is a villanelle.

DARKSECRETS

Darksecrets of the heart,

likeclaws of a trapped bear

ready totear us apart

Underthreat at the start,

nature’ssoul stripped bare;

darksecrets of the heart

Seetruth’s unerring dart

sentflying through the air

ready totear us apart

No sweeta fruit or tart

thanwords we cannot share;

darksecrets of the heart

Tools ofa far subtler art

thanMedusa’s stony glare,

ready totear us apart

Endgame,a poison dart

(anytime, anywhere);

darksecrets of the heart

ready totear us apart

CopyrightR. N. Taber 2008

Blasphemy

2012-01-23T00:50:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s post appears on both poetry blogs today, not least becausea number of heterosexual readers got in touch to say they enjoyed myserial Dog Roses.

The poem has appeared on the blog before,and introduces a new serial - Blasphemy -on my fiction blog; a gay-interest crime novel set in London UK that waspublished in 2006.

For details and a synopsis: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile...

According to Psalm 14 of the Bible, people who don’t believe in God arefilthy, corrupt fools, entirely incapable of doing any good. Although thosesentiments were written over 2,000 years ago, non-believers are stillstigmatized to this day, especially by Christians and various other religiousgroups regardless of which Holy Book they purport to follow.

Does the fact that I take a strong sense of spirituality from naturewhere I found none in religion and cannot begin to relate to a personified God makeme an non-believer? Religious groups would say, yes. Me, I am not so sure...

This poem is a villanelle.

BLASPHEMY

Where the blasphemy in any Belief

that takes its cue from humanity,

shining through like a spring leaf?

Why the pain, recriminations, grief

put down to a person’s sexuality?

Where the blasphemy in any Belief?

Earth Mother has given us our brief

for each season of our mortality,

shining through like a spring leaf

Let religious leaders make mischief,

undermining a common equality,

where the blasphemy in any Belief?

Another word pit against us is ‘if…’

confusing us, its very duplicity,

shining through like a spring leaf

While bigots use God’s handkerchief

to sneeze at our integrity…

where the blasphemy in any Belief

shining through like a spring leaf?

CopyrightR. N. Taber 2009

Seaside Through A Rain Cloud's Eye

2012-01-22T02:03:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I have written several poems about Brighton and readers 'Kate' and 'Kyle' have asked me to repeat this one as they, too, love the seaside out of season. Apparently, Kate lives in Brighton, but does not subscribe to the view of some local people that it is 'tacky' to enjoy going down to the beach. Good for you, Kate. If I lived there, you wouldn't keep me away.

Although I was still feeling a bit chesty after the worstcold I have had in years, I managed to travel to Brighton for the day last week and it was good to catch up with old friends.

As I live on my own and am estranged from my nearly all familyfor various reasons, friends have always played a very important part in mylife; so, too, has Brighton since my mother used to take me there during schoolholidays when I was a child. Being able to combine both experiences is a realtreat for me while an added bonus is the fact that I love train journeys.

It is no coincidence that I set my novel Like There’s No Tomorrow in Brighton. [Seemy fiction blog for a serialised version of the novel that I plan to upload asan e-book later this year so readers can download to kindle.]:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/10/like-theres-no-tomorrow-synopsis_3445.html]

The weather on Wednesday was murky but not particularly cold for midwinter. The sea was rough and I had the beach almost to myself. Oh, but I so love the seaside out of season...

SEASIDE, THROUGH A RAIN CLOUD’S EYE

I see breakers crashing on the shore,

seagulls circling above,

face at windows of a nearby hotel

and a woman walking her dog

I see an ice-cream van doing no trade,

heads busy dodging umbrellas,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and a beggar being moved on

I see a windsurfer gathering speed,

seagulls keeping an eye,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and lovers pausing for a kiss

I see plastic shopping bags burst open,

their owner getting in a state,

faces at the window of a nearby hotel

and a man exit a Bookies crying

I see cinemagoers pouring into a street,

frantically reaching for phones,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and the lovers having a quarrel

I see the woman’s dog (not on a leash)

go chasing after a cat,

faces at the window of a nearby hotel

and the windsurfer take a tumble

I see a watery sunlight breaking through

layers of cloud shades of grey,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

starting to come alive

[Brighton, East Sussex, March 17th 2010]

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer due forpublication in February/April 2012]

Casual Chat In A Greasy Spoon

2012-01-21T01:46:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

This post is duplicated on bothblogs today.

Some heterosexuals are (still) all but obsessedwith the belief they cannot possibly contract HIV-AIDS because they arenot gay. Yes, it’s unbelievable, but true. When it happens to them, they haven’ta clue how to handle it. The same can be said for some gay men and women ofcourse; a lot of gay guys, too, live in a complacent little bubble of their own making.

I have written many poems aboutHIV-AIDS but it is today’s poem that last appeared on both blogs in February 2010which has caught a reader’s eye. I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Rudi’, who apparentlyhas a friend in denial about recently been diagnosed HIV + while being treatedin hospital for something else. Rudi says, ‘It is like he can’t believe itcould happen to a super fit heterosexual like him even though he sleeps aroundand doesn’t always use a condom. It has never occurred to him that one of hiscasual girlfriends might have been infected by another casual male partner...asif he’s the only one into casual sex!’ Rudi adds, ‘They have tried to help himat the hospital, but he won’t listen. He has convinced himself there has been amistake, and they are a bunch of incompetents.’

Playing the blame game is always awaste of time. Rudi’s friend needs to see a doctor and counsellor and getmedication/advice NOW. Just because people can live for years with the HIV-AIDSvirus these days is no cause for complacency and is wholly dependent upon theright medication and a mature attitude to sexual responsibility.

Even talking to a complete strangerin a 'greasy spoon' café is as good a start as any although why so many straightguys seem to think we gay guys should be any more comfortable with the idea ofHIV-AIDS than they are remains a mystery to me. Maybe they think that, because we have lived with the possibility longer and perhaps more intimately; it is ingrained in our psyche, forewarned, so to speak, being forearmed? There may even be something in that, but living with HIV+ is no easy ride for anyone.

This is an autobiographical poemand the guy who told me he was HIV+ plainly thought I’d be ‘a good guy to talkto’ because he thought I ‘looked gay’ and ‘would know about these things.’ Itried to reassure him and gave him some good advice for which he was grateful,but squirmed a lot. We shook hands when we parted, and he told me in a well meaning if also very patronising way, ‘It’s been nice talking to you. Hey,you lot aren’t so bad, are you?’ I took it to be a rhetorical question andsummoned a diplomatic smile.

By the way, Rudi didn’t say if heis gay or straight [does it matter?] but didmention that he is tested for HIV-AIDS on a regular basis, but a lot of hisfriends ‘can’t be bothered’ and/or ‘would rather not know anyway.’ Good for you, Rudi, and I hope you manage toknock some common sense into those idiots.

This poem is a villanelle.

CASUAL CHAT IN A GREASY SPOON

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

and blames people like me

(what was I supposed to say?)

I met him in a cafe one spring day

(me wearing a bright pink tee);

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

He was sad. I said, ‘Hi, a niceday’

and he got really angry

(what was I supposed to say?)

He said he doesn’t do nice, no way,

to ‘my sort’ especially;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

I struggled to keep my hurt at bay,

fend off his hostility

(what was I supposed to say?)

Sex is a game it takes two to play,

we agreed over Fair Trade tea;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

(what was I supposed to say?)

[Note: From: On the Battlefieldsof Love by R. N. Taber, AssemblyBooks, 2010]

Youth - Middle Age - Old Age

2012-01-18T00:46:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Yesterday,I posted a poem inspired by a song sung by Doris Day. A reader has been intouch to ask, ‘It is bad enough that someone who claims to be a serious poetwrites gay rubbish, which I find offensive, but to write about Doris Day isreally the last straw!’

Well, for a start I have neverclaimed to be a serious poet only someone who takes poetry seriously; well,most of the time. I am certainly no poetry snob, and readers will know that Iwrite on all manner of themes. Nor am I a music snob. I love Doris Day just asI love Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Cash. Ilove some classical music, but I also love some pop and adore rock ‘n’ roll. I love some opera but cannot claim to be anopera buff. With me, it’s pick’n’mix. So what’s wrong with that? If it is goodof its kind, I will usually enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I enjoy Elvis Presley everybit as much as Placido Domingo or adore Shirley Bassey just as I do Diana Rossand Leona Lewis. And let's not forget the late, great Dusty Springfield or, forthat matter, Mario Lanza or Frank Sinatra. I could go on all day...

If people choose to limit theirappreciation to one kind of music, one genre of literature or one period ofart, that’s up to them. But there are lots of people like me who love to dabblein this ‘n’ that, and where’s the harm?

So I offer no apology for offendingthat particular reader. What planet is he (or she) from, I wonder?

Meanwhile...

So many readers have asked me torepeat this trilogy of villanelles that has not appeared on the blog sinceearly 2010 so here it is again. I hope new readers and those who are unable tobrowse the blog archives for whatever reason, quite possibly because theysimply don’t have the time, will enjoy it and regular readers will also enjoybeing reacquainted with it.

We all have to grow old, but to howmany of us, I wonder, does the ageing process convey the wisdom that we mustmake the most of the best not the worst of it all...?

IN APPRECIATION OF YOUTH

Youth cries the world’s tears,

slows time’s flight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

It will always lead the cheers

for wrongs put right,

Youth cries the world’s tears

Youth bonds with its peers,

develops second sight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

To peace and love it steers

(Armageddon in sight)

Youth cries the world’s tears

As a mist of naivety clears,

it won't throw the fight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

It straddles the world’s terrors,

a love poem to write;

Youth cries the world’s tears

relays Earth Mother’s fears

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

IN CELEBRATION OF MIDDLE AGE

In celebration of middle age

(after much rehearsing)

time brings us centre-stage

Like a bird freed from its cage,

we’ll fly on a poem’s wing

in celebration of middle age

Daring us turn the first page

in our history’s re-shaping,

time brings us centre-stage

Shake off cliché and adage,

give truth a rare dusting

in celebration of middle age

Inspired by youth’s raw rage,

its humanity enduring,

time brings us centre-stage

Acted out on a custom page,

a love poem in the making;

in celebration of middle age

time brings us centre-stage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

BY WAY OF MARKING OLD AGE

By way of marking old age

(after much reflecting)

time edges us off-stage

Like a bird returned to its cage,

we’ll flex a feisty wing

by way of marking old age

Letting slip that life's last page

makes good reading,

time edges us off-stage

Let’s not pass cliché and adage

off as living…

by way of marking old age

Inspired by a well-honed rage,

its humanity enduring…

time edges us off-stage

No matter memory skips a page,

its poetry re-working;

by way of marking old age

time edges us off-stage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

[From: On The Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Castaways

2012-01-17T02:02:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s post is duplicated on both blogs.

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touchto say they enjoy my Tweets on Life with which I link my blog posts to Twitter. However, I don’t use Twitter as a social network asI am not into social networking so if you want to contract me any time, alwaysemail me at: rogertab@aol.com

If you want to read my Tweets, go to: https://twitter.com/rogertab

Meanwhile...

In 2010 I postedtwo poems that I had written by way of a tribute to Doris Day. A number of youasked me to include them in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer that will be published here in the UKduring February/Match this year. I have just finished collating the poemsfor the book, and only managed to find room for one of them (today’s poem); itwill appear in the Opening Up To Lovesection and I will include a Note to say how I came to write it after listeningto Doris singing Love’s Little Island.I first heard the song many years ago and, being a romantic through andthrough, it has always been a favourite of mine.

In anothersection of the book, Lasting Impressions,I will also include a tribute to the late, great Ella Fitzgerald called Ella Sings The Blues. [See blog entry for April 2010.]

Hopefully, therewill be something for everyone in what will probably be the last collection Ipublish in book form. Book sales are already plummeting, and have never been too goodfor poetry anyway, so I may well only kindle publish Diary of a Time Traveller to mark my 70^th birthday in 2015.

By the way, none of my poetrybooks are available as e-books yet, but I will see how poetry transcribes toe-format later this year.

As regular readers are aware, UK readers can order any of poetry titles at any UK bookstore ortry their local public library; all readers (including overseas) canorder signed copies direct from me at a blog discount & pay viaPayPal. Enquiries to: rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog Reader' in the subject field or the email will not be opened.

CASTAWAYS

Washed up on anisland

in a misty dream,

passing centuriesshadowing us

(wings acrossgolden sand)

Game to explorean island

in a misty dream,

fair memorieswaving back at us

(castle flags ongolden sand)

Last seen kissingon an island,

sea mist closingin,

too soon, time’stide covering us

(footprints ongolden sand)

Closer to natureon an island,

(love’s lastingdream)

earth’s descantsurely winging us,

seabirds acrossgolden sand

As golden sand toocean waves

are the world’slovers…

though humankindrun the gamut

of nature’sgrudges against it

Copyright R.N. Taber 2010

A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time

2012-01-16T01:22:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Ihaven’t posted today’s poem on the blog since 2009. It appears today for no other reason than, asI grow old, I become even more acutely aware than ever that time pays me nomore respect now than it ever did.

Sowhat ever really changes...?

Oh,we grow up and get on with our lives as best we can, but be sure the child who wants everything to be just soand wants it yesterday is never far away even if he or she chooses neither tobe seen nor heard. It’s a common enough phenomenon that’s called wishfulthinking...

AFEELING FOR THE QUICKNESS OF TIME

Yesterdaygone, today soon done, tomorrow

alreadyon the run from mindless shadows

toyingwith unkind thoughts, like a child sent

tobed early, lessons for the learning - but

instead,filling our heads with lies, half lies,

(fewhome truths getting a look in)

determinedto feel hard done by, not to cry

wouldrather die than let anyone see

howmuch it hurts to be missing TV, denied

computergames, nothing to do…

butcall people names. Could read a book,

Isuppose, but who wants to do that

thesedays? They’ve taken the MP3 player

too,talk about getting even, pulling rank!

Beinga kid’s a thankless affair, just wait till

I’m older. I’ll show ‘em what’s what,

hightime they learned what life’s all about

(tooshort to fuss about being late home,

Although(fair enough) should have called

to say so but…what the heck?

Gothome okay eventually, didn’t I?

(Parents,who’d have ’em...?)

Rantingand raving at a window, watching

thesun fade away, listening for voices

we’reused to hearing say things like don’t,

can’t,shouldn’t, mustn’t, old enough

toknow better’ - shows they care, I suppose

andan early night’s not the end

ofthe world in anyone’s language even if,

likethe mantel clock, we’re loath

toacknowledge a fault, tailoring time’s cloth

tosuit the parts we play; child grown-ups

gettinga life, demanding a real say

inhow our stage be set - not ‘one day perhaps’

buta resounding yes, NOW

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005;2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1^steds. of A Feeling for the Quickness ofTime by R. N. Taber, 2005]

A Feeling For Fantasy

2012-01-15T03:22:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

As regular readers will know, I often do whimsy...

A FEELING FOR FANTASY

Strolling by fields of barley, wheat and rye,

my love and I sought lasting rest and peace;

twin spirits hungry for sanctuary,

weary of a world always judging us

We reached woodlands alive with leafy song,

a sonata for lovers everywhere,

paused to ask a tree nymph for its blessing,

keen to turn our backs on urban despair

The nymph warned it was born of the country,

bound by the countryside’s own moral code,

had only heard tales of urbanity,

a Grim Reaper harvesting swathes of road

Such peace here! “For us, too, a gay couple?”

“Ah,” said the nymph, “that depends on people.”

[From: A Feeling forthe Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Acolyte

2012-01-14T01:24:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s poem last appeared on the blog in May 2010 and its reappearance is prompted by ‘Anya’ whose family does not approve of her fiancé and is making life ‘impossible’ for them.

Sometimes it’s GOOD to feel different. Sometimes it’s good to BE different. So what’s ‘different’ anyway?

As I have said many times before (and will again, you can be sure of it) our differences don’t make us different, only human.

Whether or not we approve of other people’s ‘differences’ in comparison with our own points of view or lifestyles even, we should at least respect them; that way, we might even learn to understand them. It has to beat fighting over them, yeah?

We all have the right to create our own personal space and feel free to be true to ourselves within it; so-called 'convention' - according to this society or that - must find ways to accommodate and embrace us, just as we need to accommodate and embrace it.

This poem is a kenning.

ACOLYTE

I know my place, would show

others, though some refuse to learn,

take me for an enemy, refuse

to see I have their well-being at heart,

would prefer not to toss them

like flotsam and jetsam on such waves

as the great god Society enjoys

making for those who dare question

if its integrity fit for purpose

I know my place, would teach

others to know theirs, better by far

to tread in footprints already

leading the way across snow and ice

than take another path,

making out it will lead somewhere

when there’s no guarantee

it will lead anywhere at all, so those

follow but heading for a fall

I know my place, would plead

with others to know theirs and lead

by good example

Into the quiet waters of expediency

leave politics and religion

free to hoist colours that barely flap

in a breeze, anxious to please,

avoid looking closely at the integrity

of a sexuality fit for purpose

My place, to bring to Society’s attention

who queer me, its acolyte, Convention

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

Through A Glass Darkly

2012-01-13T01:20:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

An earlier version of this poem appeared in the anthology An Immortal Truth, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in my first collection the following year. The original version was written in 1984 following a discussion with several peers about how awful we were sometimes when we were children and how, whenever we look in memory’s mirror for those halcyon days, maturity invariably summons certain regrets that, in turn, cause cracks to appear...

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

In a pretty street, tree lined,

children playing hide-and-seek

make noise enough

to wake the dead, the old man says

who lives on the ground floor

of an end house whose shiny steps

such fun we slip, towering wall

a thrill to squeal and climb, knowing

he’s sure to fuss, but by the time he’ll rush,

no sign of us

Waving a stick, he’ll bawl us out

and we’ll mouth him back, but not until

the door slams shut. Oh, but kids

growing up make no excuses, just din enough

to wake the dead, the old man says,

treading the ground floor of the end house

whose mossy steps so snug we sprawl,

graffiti wall sheer joy to lean, grubby nets

a-quiver at our kissing or could it be for all

he’s missing?

Children gone, traffic enough

to wake the dead, the old man said

who lived that shabby room

whose crabby gloom we never spared;

brave wall, a sorry spread,

curtains down (windows boarded up instead)

ghosts playing hide-and-seek

with eternity facing a bleak affinity

for wings taunted by the last tree left standing,

cracks in a mirror appearing

A cruelty enduring

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2011

Some Days Smack Of Burning Rubber

2012-01-12T05:13:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

We all have them from time to time...

So when was your last really, really BAD day?

SOME DAYS SMACK OF BURNING RUBBER

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

One mischief making ghost gets to play at navigator

for old times sake

Driver takes a shortcut across a field of bad dreams

sprouting like four-leaf clover

Ghosts like shadows ready to drive a hard bargain

with the living for their favours

Driver on a Big Wheel screaming for the fun of a fair

under an acid rain of spreadsheets

Driver on a shrinking wheel, Gulliver lost in Lilliput

without a map

Highway coursing the driver’s veins as sure as boards

turning an actor inside out

Driver’s eyes opening. Wheel of Life resumes a pace

unworthy of a ghost

Home stretch, final act, driver’s waking up to a kinder

endgame than limbo…?

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: this poem is one of 100+ that will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer due for publication by late February/early April; like my previous collections, it will be divided into (7) themed sections for easy reading.]

Out Of Africa

2012-01-11T00:49:00.000-08:00

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

Today’s post is duplicated on my general blog because, hopefully, it will be of real interest and concern to all readers. Here in the UK, it is bad enough that homophobia and hate crime against gay people, especially gay men, is alive and kicking, but in some parts of the world, and not only in the southern hemisphere either, it aspires to diabolical proportions.

Anyone who watched the Channel Four Dispatches programme ‘Africa: the last taboo’ in July 2010 will have a good idea what it is like to be gay in the greater part of Africa.

Now, evangelical pastors preaching homophobia and worse across the world have much to answer for, but it is perhaps the greater part of Africa that they aspire to their most diabolical; their influence is such that a newspaper editor in Uganda has called for the deaths of known gay people, and they must accept no small responsibility for anti-gay legislation in many if not most African countries.

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/episode-guide/series-65/episode-1

OUT OF AFRICA

‘Kill the homosexuals!’

an evangelical pastor cried,

and true to his words

many gay men and women

have since died

‘Homosexuals are sinners!’

the impassioned pastor yelled

at a congregation

that took up the cry, would

see us killed

‘Homosexuality is an evil,’

the demon pastor screamed,

‘and no known cure

so kill, kill, or see its sinning

go unredeemed!’

‘Man shall with woman lie!’

The pastor furiously exhorted

his flock to heed verses

from Leviticus, Christ’s coming

conveniently aborted

Someone in the congregation

dared point out that Christ said

we should love

and help our neighbours, not

wish them dead

‘Blasphemer!” the pastor cried,

near hysterically refusing to relent

his demonising

of homosexuality undermining

New Testament

Africa, Africa, what are you doing,

even listening?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be published in February/March 2012]

Slump

2012-01-10T01:08:00.000-08:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today’s poem appears on both blogs; it last appeared on the general blog in 2008 and has not found its way to my gay-interest blog at all so I guess it’s high time I gave it an airing. It is particularly relevant for me at the moment as I have a very bad cold and ‘slump’ is just about all I want to do. At the same time, from what people tell me, 'slump' just about sums up post New Year's Day January...

SLUMP