Living with Hans Christian Andersen

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

Everyone loves a Christmas tree, but (let’s face it) Christmas does a fir tree no favours.

Now, both as a child and adult, I have loved the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen...at any time of year. As Christmas draws near, I cannot help but recall The Fir Tree.  

The fir tree is in such a hurry to grow that it fails to enjoy the beauty around it. All it thinks about is how much it wants to become a tall fir tree and see the wide world and experience new things. It finds no joy in the moment, but is always longing for the future. Finally, the fir tree realizes it has wasted its life by living for the future instead of for the present.  As a story about failing to appreciate what we have going for us until it is too late, I dare say many if not most of us can relate to it in one way or another?

Hans Christian Andersen, 1805-1875

As well as loving Andersen’s fairy tales, I carried much of their sense of morality and spirituality with me into adult life, which is possibly why I still enjoy reading them from time to time. It can do no harm (can it?) to recall that naïve, free, faery, spirit upon whose back I would frequently ride off into magical other-worlds and find respite from childhood’s darker side. (However much we may like to think of childhood as all innocence and light, it is no more immune to the harsher realities of human nature and everyday existence than adulthood; the latter, even at its worst, at least offers experience and choices rarely if ever available to us as children.)

This poem is a villanelle.

LIVING WITH HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A certain Danish weaver

became a tailor, turned to acting, 

found fame as a storyteller

His tales told world over,

(inspiring many an ugly duckling)

a certain Danish weaver

Denmark’s heart breaker,

(the little mermaid lost everything)

found fame as a storyteller

Shrewd political observer,

(even of an emperor’s new clothing)

a certain Danish weaver

Steadfast, like a tin soldier,

(firm favourite at bed-time reading)

found fame as a storyteller

Where childhood rides forever

on the back of its wishful thinking,

a certain Danish weaver

found fame as a storyteller

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Ode To A Mermaid

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

As regular readers know, I ‘do whimsical’ sometimes. I began writing this poem on the cliffs at Scarborough in 2007, and then forgot about it, only to rediscover it in an old notebook a year or so later. AS a child, I loved The Little Mermaid, a story by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. I suspect I have never quite grown up as fairy tales and their allegorical significance continue to haunt my personal space... in the nicest possible way.

Did I hear a mermaid singing? Oh, probably not, but...

ODE TO A MERMAID

I once hit a beach at the cliff edge of night,

not a single star left shining,

my soul, a Black Hole, no glimmer of light,

(even the moon was in hiding)

I cried out in terror. (Did no one hear me?)

The whole world lay sleeping;

heavy eyes stinging with spray from the sea,

I heard a mermaid singing

Despairingly, I scoured that awful darkness

till I made out a shadowy figure

dancing on the water like a pagan goddess

grieving our past, present, future…

Listening to the song she sung, of a history

in which I, too, played a part,

it struck a low, half-forgotten chord in me

not yet (quite) played out

Louder, a hymn to the world’s damaged souls

rang in my ears, on my tongue,

calling on its strengths, inspiring new goals,

(of these, too, the mermaid sung)

She left suddenly, as if frightened by the dawn,

its first weepy light already clearing,

in whose sight I’ll walk tall, never (quite) alone

for the song of a mermaid singing

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Photo: The Little Mermaid on a rock overlooking Copenhagen harbour as inspired by the famous fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen.

Sunflowers

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

I love sunflowers, for real and as immortalised in art.

Today’s poem was posted on the blog in April 2009 and is repeated today especially for two Danish readers, ‘Aksel and Carin’ who share a love for the paintings of Danish impressionist Preben Rasmussen; among his paintings, their favourite is one inspired by...yes, sunflowers.

Now, I confess I’d never heard of Rasmussen, and only know of (and love) Van Gogh’s incredible sunflowers but will be on the lookout for any exhibitions of his work from now on.

Oh, but I love it when readers comment that my love poems could have been written for anyone, gay, straight or transgender; my point entirely. [Incidentally, I always include and try to reach out to lesbians among my gay readers, only can’t keep qualifying what I say; no offence intended to those lesbian readers who prefer the term ‘lesbian’ to ‘gay’.]

A love poem is a love poem, for anyone and everyone, in any language.

SUNFLOWERS

Mad caress of fingers in the hair,

bold lips lingering on mine;

bright eyes pricking every nerve,

our breaths like party wine;

beads of sweat, rolling down

each parted thigh like tears

on the face of a lost child, found

and returned home…

A rhythm in us like the quickening

pulse of a late-night disco,

cyber suns flashing in the face,

making V-signs;

fulfilment, the joy of someone

playing with a new toy...

(Even in my ecstasy, I sense, dimly,

how you’ll grow tired of me)

for now, though, joined together

like Siamese twins,

one of us destined to live out

the other’s days...

No choice. Better to die now

in a sea of passion

than while away a lifetime

in a toyshop window;

fill me then with the glorious

chaos of rebirth;

music, like sunflowers, bursting

from the earth...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]