Echoes of a Season Past

ROGER TABER - POETRY READING
21 March 2017 – Part 2

From Roger’s friend, Graham

Greetings from autumnal Essex, UK,

I’m sharing the second part of Roger’s poetry reading. Again, I’ve embellished the recording with imagery (including the occasional cheeky pun). I’m grateful to the photographers who’ve shared their work (public domain license) on the Pixabay, Pexels and Unsplash websites. Wikimedia has also proven really helpful.

Here’s the link: https://youtu.be/hs3aTILOdtU. Or find it by searching ‘roger taber poetry’ in YouTube if you prefer.

I was reflecting on my previous comments about performance poetry being more expressive than printed form. How it reveals the intensity, passion and human frailty of the poet. And yet, conversely, a soundtrack could be interpreted as the author’s impressing of a particular perspective on his work. I wonder if poetry, art or music is really more about multiple viewpoints…? And written verse, perhaps, remains more accessible to those differing interpretations. Either way, I still think the recording adds an interesting facet to Roger’s published work.

The selection contains some personal favourites – ‘Suggestions’ and ‘The Poet’s Song’ among them. I read the latter at Roger’s funeral as part of a eulogy. Although it’s not sombre - rather a celebration of the artform. After all, ‘look on the bright side’ was his mantra. Even on his poetic postcards from the abyss.

Inevitably, the project has left me with a sense of retrospection. Roger died back in March last year although, for me at least, his presence lingers. His connection to the world endures somehow in a continuum of past-present-future. Like a pebble cast into water, his life-force resonates through a sea of time…

Memory’s warming embers ever glimmer in the shadow of grief.

Thanks for reading/listening.

G x

 

*  *  *

 

‘I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place.’
Michel Foucault

‘No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.’
Terry Pratchett

‘As long as there are memories, yesterday remains. As long as there is hope, tomorrow awaits. As long as there is friendship, today is beautiful.’
Billy Joel

 

*  *  *

 

ROGER TABER - POETRY READING
Tuesday, 21 March 2017

PART 2

The Master Baiter
W-A-R, Crucible Of Remembrance
Spring Magic
Logging On To Life
Imagination, Painter Of Dreams or Masochist
National Trust Outing
Suggestions
Shades Of Comic Genius
Engaging With Nature or Living With Prostate Cancer
Patchwork
Ode To Apollo or Profile Of A Life-force
Heartbeat or Waking Up To The Power of Positive Thinking
Poems By Passing Clouds
The Poet’s Song
In Good Company

(CC) R. N. Taber 2017

Stumbling Blocks

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

While I continue to replace originals in my print collections with any later revised poems in preparation for publishing online at a later date, I have also decided that, once having completed the task, I will first publish a collection of the most  popular poems on the blogs; this way,  readers will be able to dip into them should Google delete my blogs once I have gone walkies with the Grim Reaper.

I have to confess that I am finding even  my early 70's heavy going on a daily basis. I am 74 now, live alone, and seem to deal with just about everything so much worse than I used to. Inclined to get everyday crises out of proportion, to say I am less than happy with my quality of life these days is an understatement. 

I used to be happy enough living on my own, but now I often feel isolated, probably because I have so much less of a social life these days. Even so, I have much to be thankful for, especially a best friend without whom my life would be unbearable. 
  
Life could be better, for sure, but it could also be much worse so...as good a reason as any to continue taking my cue from Monty Python, and always look on the bright side of life; well, nearly always... (My cue for visiting nearby Hampstead Heath, where the  peace and beauty of nature can always be relied upon to clear even the most dissatisfied mind-body-spirit.)
.
I guess growing old(er) was never meant to be an easy journey. Writing poetry helps; in my head, I can hear Ella Fitzgerald singing 'A Satisfied Mind', and do my best to achieve just that...

STUMBLING BLOCKS

Stumbling so, my years
across a shifting sea of sand;

the poetry of unshed tears

In a haze that never clears

though blind faith withstand,

stumbling so, my years

A sad heart’s secret fears

expected to make a last stand; 
the poetry of unshed tears

Deafened by global cheers

at some false god’s command,

stumbling so, my years

World, too, nursing its fears,

(failing to stay a logger’s hand);
the poetry of unshed tears

Peace, it all but disappears,
under layers of dissatisfied mind;

stumbling so, my years,

the poetry of unshed tears

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 'On the Battlefields of Love' by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Time, Critic-cum-Tallyman

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

I wrote an earlier and significantly different version of this poem for a collection published in 2010. So why revise it nearly ten years later? You may well ask, and I will do my best to make the case not only for for its revision but for having revised many poems that appear in my collections between 2001-2012.

Our perspectives on and attitudes towards life and people  change as time passes, perhaps not radically, but significantly all the same. You only have to look at political correctness; what was tolerated - even if not acceptable - years ago  is now considered abuse; racism and sexism are but two examples, never acceptable but once tolerated. Even now, there are often huge discrepancies as to what is politically incorrect and what is not, often depending on the context in which something is said/interpreted/misinterpreted and/ or the person who says it. It is one reason why I object to people being taken to task for politically incorrect behaviour years ago when it did not have anywhere near as high a profile as it rightly does now;  it doesn't mean that a person was right to say or do whatever at the time, but society, too, has to take its share of responsibility for not taking that person to task then rather than using it as a weapon against them years later.

Language and the use of language changes alongside our perceptions on all manner of issues. Climate change is another example; now getting the high profile it deserves, but still dismissed by some as a fairy story or 'fake news'. Ordinary people like me cannot help but become confused sometimes, and this confusion sometimes comes through in what they say - or write - at any given moment in time; by the time it is made public, circumstances may have caused hem us to have a change of mind and heart. The point being, they genuinely believed whatever they said or wrote at the time; even more to the point, perhaps, is that they were satisfied at the time with heir choice of words.

There is always, of course, the hope that we become better speakers/writers the more we practise either craft or both.

In poetry especially, titles are so important too.I have to confess I struggle with titles. Interestingly, I have changed the title of a poem that hasn't gone down too well with readers and - without changing a word of the poem itself - hey, presto, it attracts significantly more readers and favourable feedback.

There will always be some who don't like what we say or do, for whatever reason, and that is human nature; no problem there so long as the critic is prepared to engage with the writer/speaker rather than seize upon one word or sentence and proceed to attack that, rather than take in the whole. As I have said many times, many parts make a whole, but it is the whole that counts; the parts may well be critically interpreted separately, but should always replaced.in the context of that same whole.

Such is human nature and the complexity of mind-body-spirit, that we are too often inclined to mistake one or more parts of a person for their whole; a whole that is not always a certainty; as such, can it not be forgiven for being  no less susceptible to change than  any uncertainty, feeling its way though the maze that is life - and the range of emotions it invariably invokes - at any age or given moment in time, no matter what our ethnicity, culture, politics, social background or religion...?

TIME, CRITIC-CUM-TALLYMAN

No impartial critic of old age,

(performance s-l-o-w-i--n-g)

Time's remit, clearing the stage

Letting slip how life’s last page

guarantees no happy ending,

no impartial critic of old age

Like a songbird kept in a cage

see humanity flex a wing;

Time's remit, clearing the stage

Earth, driven to express outrage

for an inhumanity enduring,

no impartial critic of old age

Proving neither apathy nor rage

a true template for living,

Time's remit, clearing the stage

Humanity (still) acting The Sage,
its poetry-prose but reworking;

no impartial critic of old age, 

Time’s remit, clearing the stage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title ‘By Way of Marking Old Age’in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

A Growing Sense of Where Reason Fears to Tread

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

As I grow old (born 1945) I can’t help wondering if I may well have made fewer mistakes in life had I put more trust in heartfelt sensibilities and less in the (arguably) devious designs of reason.

Whatever, what is done is done and can never be undone although (sometimes) compensated for if only in part…provided we have (or can find) the heart for it.

A GROWING SENSE OF WHERE REASON FEARS TO TREAD

Days, weeks, years,

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play

at mind games to confuse us

about time lines

Time lines, in a haze

of remembrance playing fast

and loose with Memory

where conscience

pulls our strings and leads us

into shadowy places

In shadowy places,

wandering as lost and alone

as a child whose parent,

but for one awful moment 

in time let fall the clinging hand

into unbearable space

An awful vacuum

this freedom once longed for

with, oh, such passion,

meant to fire the flames 

of ambition, not made scapegoat

for an untimely burn out

Responsibility, moral

obligations where bucks stop

at a scary self-searching

where none so blind as dare 

not see block any home truths

demanding a voice

Home truths, eroding

comfort zones, pulling rugs

from under feet bent

on standing up to be seen 

scoring points over alternatives

and so-called 'betters'

Alternatives, for better

or worse, we’ll never know

unless given a voice, 

allowed to speak, make a case

for setting mind-body-spirit free

from dogma's chains

Mind, body, human spirit

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play football 

with 'live' heads, scoring off-side

more often than not

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, 2019

Sanctuary OR Thoughts on Growing Old

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

Many years ago, someone told me that the best thing a person can do with his or her life is to be sure to create as many happy memories to fall back on during less happy times. Oh, but how true! ]

Growing old can be tough, painful and lonely for some if not many of us although, of course, old age has no monopoly on any of these. 

Happy memories are not for crying over because they are in the past, but for celebrating and providing a sanctuary of thoughts as we run the gamut of life's harder times, thereby making the Here-and-Now less tough, painful or lonely...if we let it; they may also inspire us to create more such memories because  it's never too late all the while we can raise a smile and laugh enough to encourage others into our lives. As my dear, late mother once commented, no one enjoys the company of a perennial whinger.

SANCTUARY or THOUGHTS ON GROWING OLD

When I walk in the Valley of Memory,
all those I have loved greet me there,
light in their eyes like the sun in summer skies,
past harsh words, beyond pain or care

When I walk in the Valley of Memory,
I rejoice to be all that I can,
mistakes redeemed, life all that it seemed
to the child I was and young man

When I walk in the Valley of Memory
lambs among wolves play at ease,
rain washed clean, the grass growing green,
flowers, icons of love and peace

When I walk in the Valley of Memory,
a breeze recites poems in my ears,
trees sing songs about rights instead of wrongs
and all raison d’être reappears

Whenever I leave the valley, as I must,
for the world as it is, a sorry place,
I feel safer for knowing it’s there for the going
as a cold wind rips at my face


Copyright R. N. Taber, 2014

Spring Sunshine

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

We talk about the spring, summer, autumn and winter of our years (which probably places me in mid winter) but I suspect that for most if not all of us, at heart anyway,  it’s always spring…

[Photo taken from the Internet]]

SPRING SUNSHINE 

Oh, for spring’s leafy corner of the heart

where I love to lie and watch the sunrise,

a beacon of hope to guide us at the start,

its life-shadows playing tricks on our eyes

Each time a cloud passes over my head,

they home in on me, such shadows, on wing,

like birds of prey demanding to be fed

or winter dreams grown impatient for spring

Clouds pass, leafy sky fills with song again

come the sun at noon and twilight’s descent;

though shadows chill a heart like winter rain,

in one corner, spring sunshine never spent

Where nature gives and nature takes away,

in love’s leafy corner, spring sure to stay…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2013

[Note: The first line of the final couplet has been revised from an earlier version of this poem that appears in 1^st eds. of Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; 2^nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

Triumph of the Spirit

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

An earlier version of today’s poem first appeared in an anthology, All through My Life, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2000, and subsequently in my collection.

At the turn of the century, I was having a bad time. One major symptom of my depression was that I had become very self-conscious of my appearance, not least because society seemed obsessed with appearances.

By the time I had finished the poem, I felt considerably more positive about myself and life in general as well as far less about whether or not I looked the part for the kind of world in which I lived.

Time has moved on, carrying me along with it on a tide of growing if sometimes misplaced optimism. Sadly, though (as a general rule to which, thank goodness, there are many exceptions) many people worldwide continues to be obsessed with outward appearances whatever their socio-cultural-religious background.

Creative writing (indeed, any creative activity) is a wonderful therapy for the human spirit, especially when it all but spent, its batteries badly in need of recharging.

TRIUMPH OF THE SPIRIT

Had a visitor yesterday,
hair thin and grey, face lined
with age as if time
had turned a page too many,
drawn almost to a close
by nicotine fingers, cigarette
and wine stains on clothes;
a half-smile, cracked and dry
splitting papyrus skin,
mouldy lips sucking in dust
on a shelf near starved
of good company, deserving
far, far, better than this travesty
of humanity

Could it be that time
has committed this obscenity
or maggots in the soul?
Whatever, it won’t do at all,
I argued straight,
no punches pulled as outrage
lit a fire in me for this sad,
burnt-out page of human history;
if time and tide waste
no ceremony on us…so what?
Are we but slaves
to probability, bound to be all
we’re not, living among strangers
our tragedy?

No! Forget reflections in a mirror,
it’s the inner self will endure…

Copyright R, N. Taber 2001; 2013

[An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

Youth-Middle Age-Old Age (Three poems)

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 in touch to ask, ‘It is bad enough that someone who claims to be a serious poet writes gay rubbish, which I find offensive, but to write about Doris Day is really the last straw!’

Well, for a start I have never claimed 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 I write on all manner of themes. Nor am I a music snob. I love Doris Day just as I love Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Cash.  I love some classical music, but I also love some pop and adore rock ‘n’ roll. I love some opera but cannot claim to be an opera buff. With me, it’s pick’n’mix. So what’s wrong with that? If it is good of its kind, I will usually enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I enjoy Elvis Presley every bit as much as Placido Domingo or adore Shirley Bassey just as I do Diana Ross and Leona Lewis. And let's not forget the late, great Dusty Springfield or, for that matter, Mario Lanza or Frank Sinatra. I could go on all day...

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

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

Meanwhile...

So many readers have asked me to repeat this trilogy of villanelles that has not appeared on the blog since early 2010 so here it is again. I hope new readers and those who are unable to browse the blog archives for whatever reason, quite possibly because they simply don’t have the time, will enjoy it and regular readers will also enjoy being reacquainted with it.

We all have to grow old, but to how many of us, I wonder, does the ageing process convey the wisdom that we must make 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]

Time Spent In A Valley

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

Like so many of my poems, this one is not a strictly autobiographical. Yet, as I get older, my mind loves to wander to places where I have been happy; in reality and in my imagination. It is not only a pleasant pastime but also distracts from wondering how many such times I have left to me...

Oh, but how green is the valley of our imagination and how hard to reconcile it with a need to tend and nurture as reality bites, and we grow up...

"Truth cannot be brought down; rather, the individual must make the effort to ascend to it. You cannot bring the mountaintop to the valley. If you would attain to the mountaintop, you must pass through the valley, climb the steeps, unafraid of the dangerous precipices." - Jiddu Krishnamurti 

TIME SPENT IN A VALLEY

Once I played in a place full of shadows,
chasing after them as I might butterflies,
trying to catch but always failing, dropping
to the ground in fits of laughter rippling
across a valley like raindrops on that lake
where I’d swim among ducks and swans
in hues of silver, gold, pink, come the sun’s
yawning at dawn, glaring at noon, roaming
Memory Lane in a twilight spitting blood,
sunsets reminiscent of this world’s wars
whose shadows, to its own design, always
find a source to blame, scapegoat to ease
the consciences of poor souls born to front
a politics of separatism

Years on, I revisited those same shadows,
wary of them as I might be of ghosts,
trying to hide but always failing, cowering
in corners praying to a Heaven I doubted
that I’d not be discovered or, if so, taken
in shackles to some cliff edge and forced
to consider awful lies told, mistakes made,
excuses given for believing in justification
(or glorification?) of the ego rather than seek
redemption in humility, let dying echoes in
the shadow of a child’s soul feed imagination,
relying on a custom built God for salvation
should the politics of disintegration become
a serious moral issue

Growing old, I haunt that place of shadows,
greet them as old acquaintances, even try
pretending we were friends, though forced
to confess I’d sought them out for own ends
but keen to make amends (no idea how)
mindful of nature’s gentler surrounds, inner
eye blinking at children chasing after a fragile
mortality, asking questions not asked before
when answers seemed far less important than
actions according to whatever rule of thumb
convenient at the time, perhaps best explained
or excused as ‘meant well’ or (better still)
for the greater good of generations warned
against hurting butterflies

Valley of shadows, where words left unsaid
gorge on things left undone - and spit us out

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