Autobiography of a Master Builder

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

In the history of humankind, everyone has a conscience or at least an awareness of something for which they deserve to feel a sense of regret, even guilt; whether or not we take much if any notice, of course, is something else altogether. Anyone who chooses to ignore matters of conscience - or block them out, as the case may be -  may well mean they will carry on regardless, even 're-offend'.

We can never quite be rid of any form of self-awareness (and alter ego), whether it be for better or worse; such, perhaps, are the ghost selves that haunt us, manifestations of all we see as mistakes we have made or whatever ...?

History and personal history all have their ghosts; we need to acknowledge these, if only to enlist their aid to prevent either repeating itself, except in a good way, for we are all born into innocence and goodness although fortunate, indeed, is he or she who resists any temptation to stray in an opposite direction, for whatever reason, as we tackle the ups and downs of life on an everyday basis.

We can, all of us, but do our best not to stray, and if we cannot forgive ourselves for such times as we do, we can at least allow our ghosts to remind us not to do so again; in a sense, they are both ego and  alter ego, invariably vying for our attention, not least with the rhetoric of persuasion.  
.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A  MASTER BUILDER

You’ll find me in no history book,

yet I haunt its pages

among other lively ghosts

left pulling any strings

available in their assured capacity

as a role model figure

of authority, the least likely

to be challenged but by the politics

of ambition and its semantics

I am rarely seen compensating

for any damage done

given that my  preferred brief

has nearly always been

to take the path of least resistance

for just as long as I can

until the next player, poised

to take me over lock, stock and barrel,

ceases to scheme, gets real

I play mind games with humanity

in a contemporaneity

hell bent on putting its house

in order to specifications

as put forward by one of our own,

encouraged and backed

by various related personae

suggesting he or she has to be the best,

for the Here-and-Now at least

I am that bitter-sweet rhetoric of ego
behind every socio-political hero

Copyright R.N. Taber 2020

Presence OR In Praise of Sun Nymphs

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

In my 70’s now, I continue to look on the bright side of life … well, most of the time. Even so, after  hormone therapy for my prostate cancer since 2011 and (more recently) arthritis in my neck as well as the foot I damaged in a bad fall in 2014 … I confess to moments when I ask myself, do I want to go on like this or do I take the first flight to Dignitas in Switzerland? An animal in pain can be  put down. Why should a human being be denied that choice? Yes, everyone's pain threshold is different. Even so, I put it to you that, once having reached that threshold - especially where there is little or no likelihood of any meaningful respite or cure - it it is unfair and inhumane to deny people the choice as to whether they want to continue living in pain for years or be helped to die in peace now. Our body, our life - so why not our choice?

Fortunately, I am (usually) a very positive thinker, but when bad days and nights persist, I am tempted …

Even more fortunately, I have some very supportive friends and, of course, you, dear readers, who make a huge contribution towards making my life worthwhile. I would write poetry anyway, and enjoy it for its own sake, but having an appreciative readership makes all the difference. One reader emailed recently to ask why I had never won any awards, and was I disappointed?

No, certainly not disappointed on either count. One writes primarily to be read, and all three of my blogs are more widely read than I ever anticipated, with readers dropping in from many countries around the world. Given that poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea (to say the least) that alone is reward enough for yours truly. The same reader also asks why, as a gay man, I also write general poetry. Well, believe it or not, there is more to anyone than their sexuality, and I decided a long time ago that I would not pander to any stereotypes. LGBT folks are just ordinary people with whose sexuality the less discerning among us have had a problem getting their heads around for centuries. Thankfully, there are a growing number of gay-friendly people just about everywhere these days. 

I had great plans for travelling the world during my retirement, but health problems deter me from going much farther than meeting up with friends for lunch. So, do I enjoy life in my 70’s? Yes, I do … in my own way and my own good time (need a walking stick, and not a good bet for a marathon these days!) So far, so good, but I am under no illusion that I may well reach my pain threshold sooner rather than later, which case I would much prefer to die in my own country among friends.

Yes, I have every reason to be positive (in spite of occasional lapses) not least because I am still here to tell the tale after botching a suicide attempt some 40 years ago; thankfully, it proved to be a wake-up call, not the endgame I craved during a mental breakdown that had been on the cards for years.

While I am glad mental health is less of a taboo subject than when I was growing up, a lot more still needs to be done to educate people about the whys and wherefores, especially in schools. I probably would not have attempted suicide, had I not been living alone and no one around at the time to help me see the folly of it so an 'assisted' suicide would never have taken place; in the event, I woke after 36 hours and chose to life over death at that pivotal moment in time.

PRESENCE or IN PRAISE OF SUN NYMPHS

I dreamed a presence,

heard its voice calling on me

to end my life

because I’ve reaped so little

of all I’d meant

to sow, weep for time lost,

opportunities missed

I dreamed a presence

persisting with its cajoling me

to lose hope,

concede the pull of plunging

into a nothingness

no worse if no better a deal

than being … what, me?

I woke to watch a fly

on the wall fall foul of a spider

as is the way of things,

nature and humanity, species apart

in parallel universes,

life and death part and parcel

of … yes, what exactly?

I woke to sun nymphs

dancing on a yellow brick road,

making a nonsense

of a funereal gloom gripping me

as if making a play

of Light and Shadow in a world

waiting on … who, me?

Awake, asleep, a presence

there will always be, suggesting

we submit to the worst

of all worlds, abandon one second

to none, a saving grace

among the killing fields of life,

built with … loving care

Earth turning, hearts yearning

for kinder faces, distant places akin

to some paradise,

contriving beginnings of better ends

through positive thinking,

second to none among evergreens

rooted in human nature

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

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

Who has never been there, all dressed up and nowhere to go, making-believe we’ll have just as  good time staying in on our own, and who’s lonely anyway…?

Too right, it’s not a good place to be. (Most if not all of  us have been or will go there at some time or another in this life.)

So...?  Be positive. Find yourself a kinder place to be, and don't waste time thinking about it. Better, surely, to enter into the process of building self-confidence than pressing self-destruct?  If human relationships are a minefield, the trick is learning to avoid the mines not the relationships. (Did I say it would be easy?)

By the way ...

If there is anyone more boring than a whinger, it has to be a troll; to those well-meaning readers who suggest I promote my poetry on social media, I can only say I left it in the first place because of trolls and have no intention of returning. [I ignore trolls, of course, and some still email me from time to time, but they unimaginative to the point of being boring, and life is too precious to waste being bored.]

https://rogertab.blogspot.com  (General)

https://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/ Gay-interest)

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html (Fiction)

ALL DRESSED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO 

Tables in a room, Happy Hour,

forced laughter booming like canon

across no man’s land;

lots of food and drink so let’s not think

about tomorrow, mind

the remains of a Here and Now  

flying past in the wind

Singing along to the radio man

(sure to cheer us up if anyone can?)

while old gods tease us

about the rights and wrongs of strings

we pull on those of us 

left banging on doors, crying to be

let in for pity’s sake

Dreams, footprints left by chairs

across a floor, toys seen better days,

their owners never (quite)

grown out of old inhibitions or found

better ways to spend an evening

than with life fictions sure to cut us

to the quick

There's a whole world out there 

waiting to be discovered, people too,

who need someone to share lives

that haven't measured up to expectation,

thereby stifling earlier aspirations;
Yes, time to get real, and no, it's never

too late ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; rev. 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the same title 'first appeared in poetry magazines (Community of Poets, 5, 1995 and Reach, 5, 1997) before I included it in  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2001.] 

Amateur, a Self-portrait

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

Few if any of us will admit to not being masters of our fate.Up to a point, we are, of course but human life and nature are as complex as the Here-and-Now we have to try and make sense of every day until our past-present-future reaches its conclusion one way or another. 

A wise old bird I once knew warned me never to play amateur psychologist with my own feelings. Sadly, it is advice I failed to take for many years. Consequently, I developed an inferiority complex and lack of self esteem that I tried to confront and deal with, failing miserably. (Yes, my realising I am gay and growing up in a homophobic atmosphere was part of the equation, but only a part.)

Regular readers will know that I suffered a bad nervous breakdown some 40+ years ago. A married reader who confesses to experiencing much the same asks how I 'fully recovered' and 'got my life back to normal'. The sad truth is I never 'fully recovered although , yes, I did manage to knock my life into shape again, even managed to resume my career (thanks to a lot of help and support from various sources and some wonderful people) after several years of being unemployed and seemingly unemployable. It was tough, but if I was a victim, it was of my own making in the sense that I should have sought professional help years earlier. I suspect my breakdown was mind-body-spirit asking for that help, if somewhat late in the day; it had been damaged and badly in need of fixing for far too long. There was never going to be a quick fix.

Although I have been on an anti-depressant for years, it was being given a second chance that made me determined to to address my personal problems head-on and rise above them.  Returning to work in an entirely new environment where only select senior colleagues had been made aware of my history, proved to be a life-saver. I moved into my present flat, and spent years paying off credit cards used to furnish it. By that time, I was conscious of a growing uneasiness within myself. I needed form of creative therapy, and time to pursue it if I was to have any chance of averting another mental breakdown. I gave up a full-time career to work part-time, made time to write (a second life-saver) as well as creating a social life since living alone and often working long hours was contributing to a sense of depression that needs must always be attended to.

I have not been particularly successful with my writing, but enjoy it, and am happy to have achieved a minor reputation as a poet in the 70+ countries that continue to visit my blogs since I started writing them up some ten years or so ago.

Can I live with being a 'failed' novelist? Easily. The few novels I have written can be read in serial form on my fiction blog; only Blasphemy and Catching Up with Murder were ever published; several literary agents expressed an interest in Mamelon 1 & 2, but nothing ever came of it.  

Happy enough in my later years - since recovering from my breakdown sufficiently to get on with my life - I can well relate to the C.S. Lewis quote: “You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

AMATEUR, A SELF-PORTRAIT

There is a part of me

that no one ever gets to see,

for my living out

its fantasy, a nightmare fiction imposed

on Mind-body-spirit

The mind, it may fight

as best it can to get the better

of forces unknowingly

(and unwanted) hell bent upon infiltrating

the human body

The spirit, it may resist

most dreams dressed up to kill,

yet fall for home truths

last seen feeding on an amateur psychology 

worn on its sleeves

The better part of me

struggles to compensate for secrets and lies

it’s made to house

in a heart hell bent on betraying appearances

behind closed doors

The years, they passed

in tears for my struggling daily to break free

from a mind-body-spirit

that would ransom me to Reason, but Reason

would have none of it

Finally, Reason paid up,

returned me safe and sound to the kind of self

that makes a kinder person

if (still) vulnerable to life forces beyond control 

of you, me, anyone

Now, I grow old, haunted

by the ghosts of those same dark secrets and lies

that held me captive for years,

but there are other ghosts, too, allies in adversity,

come to dry my tears

Such is life and human nature,

last seen seeking to nurture its natural predilection

for love and peace

in a world rarely living up to its promises (or ours)

but… who knows…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

S-E-L-F, Living with the Enemy

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

Now and then we find ourselves confronting aspects of our past we would prefer to forget, especially any that may have caused distress - however unintentionally - to others.

Years ago, when I was a psychological mess and desperate for some time to think it through and work out a positive sense of direction for myself, I fled to Australia on the Assisted Passage scheme; in so far as any hopes that things would be different, even better, there, I might well have thought myself to be on yet another losing streak. For me, though, the redeeming feature of a venture doomed to failure from the start - not least because of the person I was then – was my meeting up with an old aborigine to whom – for the first time ever – I found myself able to confide my worst fears; I unleashed a string of regrets I had never quite faced head-on, probably because I was too busy blaming them for my state of mind.

He listened. He said very little, but listened. When I finally shut up, we sat in a very comfortable silence for some time until he said, “Regrets are part of life. If they come to haunt us, it’s but to teach us. Whether or not we learn anything, well, that is down to us, no one else.” It was such an obvious comment, yet made more sense than anything had made sense to me for years. (I was 24 years-old.) I could hear my old English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin, telling me much the same thing, and wished I had taken on the implications more, but does anyone in their teens?

Regular readers will know that thanks to my aboriginal friend, I flew home a few weeks later, hopefully a better person, definitely a changed one, and more importantly willing to learn from my ghosts instead of hating - and all but giving up on - the part of me that gave rise to them in the first place; a part that is still there, of course, but still learning, and hurting the less so for that.

S-E-L-F, LIVING WITH THE ENEMY

Regret is never enough

for the graver wrongs we do

as sure to haunt us

by day and night, ghosts

of an alter ego we got to know,

learned to hate, and finally cast aside

long, long, ago

Regret is never enough

to compensate for any mistakes

baying at our heels

like wolves, ready to pounce,

do their worst, gnaw to the bone

a body deserving no less for caving in

to being human

Regret is never enough,

cannot ever (quite) make amend

for any hurt caused,

by promises broken, trust betrayed,

a dark side of Everyman seeing to plans

haphazardly laid

Regret, for any impulses

of the worst kind, mind-body-spirit

long since redefined

by such confessions as no one hears,

meant only for the inner ear, and no one

to dry its tears

Regret, enemy-friend nobody wants know,

teaching us, ourselves, to know

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Note: Frequently, and as recently as only yesterday, a reader complains that I rarely insert full stops at the end of stanzas. I offer no apologies. For me, full stops mark an ending, and a poem has none; it does not even have meaning (for the reader) until he or she starts to take in whatever is meaningful about the poem for them. and thinks on…

Engaging with the Abstract

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

I have really never understood abstract art, but always been fascinated by it without knowing why. One day, at a Picasso exhibition, I commented as much to the person (a total stranger) standing next to me. “It’s not about making sense as we know it,” the woman said, “but letting it take us on a journey, wherever our senses choose to take us; it is the journey that counts, and at the same time completes the artwork. There's nothing like abstract art for giving the alter ego a wake-up call." She had moved on before I could quite digest this, but digest it I did, and have enjoyed taking more such journeys since. The mind operates along lines of its having to make sense of things' the heart, on the other hand, accepts that we don't.

Every time I engage with abstract art, it feels like it is taking me on a magical mystery tour around my inner self ...

I like to think at least some of my poems have much the same effect on those who engage with them, but maybe that's just wishful thinking ...

This poem is a kenning.

ENGAGING WITH THE ABSTRACT

I lead the mind a merry dance

across lesser known parameters

simply for their being red lines

drawn across localised elements

of human nature by ‘betters’

intent on feeding their own egos

(under the heading ‘Education’)

inviting any free, independent thought

to engage, comment, pass on

I invite the body to fly all time

and space, consort with pterodactyls

regenerating through time-space

to give poor history a pat on the back

for lending a poorer humanity

its spectrum of lost opportunities,

not only excused but redeemed

by all socio-cultural-religious dogma

ever written on tablets of stone

My task, to let the human spirit

enter into a global self-consciousness,

no matter its sensibilities fear

to see-hear-feel whatever hurt inflicted

on its own and natural worlds

by way of posing as a superior species

for its strength, intelligence,

or cunning wherever pure self-interest

put down to native ingenuity

Mind-body-spirit, actively taking part

in all that comprises abstract art

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Art, a Measure of Home Truths

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

An art teacher at my old school once told the class that we should not only learn how to look at art but how also to feel it. That was a good half century or so ago, but I am grateful for the tip to this day.

When we look at a painting, for example, it is obvious what we are looking at; less obvious is what lies behind the painting, how the painter saw his subject through inner eye and various absorbed impressions. The artist’s choice of colours and their shades, the force of certain brushstrokes, all are clues to what he or she is saying not only about his or her subject but  also about themselves.

The best art forms are not only delightful on the eye (or ear) but also draw us into them and thereby into ourselves. In this way, many art works survive centuries and a posthumous consciousness remains available to be tapped into by the discerning art lover who may not even be an expert, simply open to ‘live’ impressions. When we look at a work of art, we inevitably if subconsciously, look into ourselves ... and what do we see?

The Ancient Greeks, of course, produced one of the earliest well-developed examples of gay art. Going their own way from other ancient cultures, the Greeks considered free adult male sexual attraction to be both normal and natural. Gay people  like me were spared tortuous closet years imposed on us by public/cultural opinion; it is one of many modern tragedies that it remains the case for far too many of us worldwide.

ART, A MEASURE OF HOME TRUTHS

Studying me, it’s likely
that far more
than all you see will touch
mind, body and spirit,
sufficiently firing imagination
to give inspiration
a voice for home truths
ghosting paths of times past
and present…

Observing me closely, find
the inner eye
homing in on brush strokes,
the lighter here
and heavier there, colours
chosen for warmth
or cold, and touches of light;
dark, dreamy twilight,
moody gloom…

Seeing is not always (quite)
believing that creativity needs
an audience;
desires one, yes, if only to share
impressions of mind,
body and spirit laid bare
in such a way
as to make a presence felt
that would out

Art, a psycho-creative presence
redefining subject and audience

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Wake-Up Call

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

I suspect many if not most of us are inclined to misinterpret images conjured up by our dream selves, failing to see them as warning signs and as good a reason as any to take a closer look at ourselves…

The dawn chorus, for some of us, can be something of a wake-up call in more ways than one, lifting spirits and appealing to a bold imagination and spirituality, but only if we let it.

Too often, we get stuck in  psycho-emotional rut of our own making and we need to listen to nature's song, tap into its freely flowing potential for positive thinking.

WAKE-UP CALL

Glad chorus

greets a dawn birthing

brave new worlds

to a Here-and-Now
custom built

Love in the air,

snakes in long grass,

good and bad

sharing our burden

of choice

Lark, skylark,

dear symbol of light

and beauty,

victim of Man’s

sheer apathy

Let us not dwell

on any fears haunting

our pillows,

all that’s between us

self-destruct

Follow the skylark,

take a cue from nature,

seize the day

for the beauty we see

in one another

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2016

[Note: This poem is a later version of the original that appears in 1st eds. of Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000 as ‘Alarm Call’; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

L-i-f-e, Beachcomber Tales

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

Now and then, readers of one or other (even both) my poetry blogs  - all ages, both sexes, gay and straight - email to say they are in London or coming to London and would like to meet up for a chat (about anything and everything) over a few drinks or a meal. I always enjoy these get-togethers, have met up with some very interesting people and keep in touch with many of them if only by email. So feel free to contact me any time, even if a meet-up is never likely to be on the cards. While I don’t allow comments on the blogs, I will always reply to emails; a lively exchange of views and opinions is always enjoyable.

Meanwhile...

'There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures.' -  William Shakespeare

Dreams and daydreams are more a part of us than we care to admit, carefully – or even carelessly - stored away in some shadowy corner of the mind waiting for sandmen to come along and explore, rather like a children  rummaging through the contents of an attic and turning it into an adventure as only children can. Quite possibly, too, they instinctively recognize the worth or worthlessness of whatever they find there…as only children can.

Like it or not, few if any of us leave childhood – or at least its natural instincts – behind altogether; naivety and innocence may be tiresome from an adult perspective, while both harbour an honesty unfettered by the so-called ‘wisdom’ that comes with maturity and invariably urges discretion if not total restraint…for (our) survival’s sake if nothing (or no one) else’s.

L-I-F-E, BEACHCOMBER TALES

Sun going down,

leaving our daydreams to float

on waves of twilight

where some are sure to drown,

others washed up

on green-gold shores of infinity,

the rest left drifting

on a vast sea of darkness,

flotsam and jetsam

of human nature to be claimed

in the passing of time

by that old beachcomber, Sleep,

and re-appraised,

reworked by sandmen, guardians

of our secret selves

Twilight dimming,

anticipating thoughts drowning

beneath wintry waves

of abandoned hope, ambition,

darker aspects of nature

and human nature sure to drag

the human condition

into an unfathomable despair

were they not there

to watch over us, keep us safe

in dimensions of Being

beyond its everyday assumptions,

painting picture-poems

on closed eyes anxious to open

closed minds

A Smiley Moon

overseeing black holes for worms

and makeshift coffins

made up of pillows, duvets and sheets

where monsters lurk, waiting

to pounce unawares on consciences

left exposed and vulnerable

in the absence of any conscious effort

to make the kind of excuses

we need to half-believe in or spiral

into a state of half-living,

inciting us to try and beat The Reaper

as his own game,

losers all, we bit players in the greater

scheme of things

Sun resurfacing,

lending passage to lion and lamb

and all of nature’s own

going about the business of living

much as we human beings

if more protective and protecting

of its species and spaces

in spite of the world’s demanding

of Earth Mother far more

than its share of natural resources,

but all’s fair…(so they say)

and the human beast needs must

be the best of a bad bunch

occupying Her territories, fighting

over them for centuries

Cold light of day,

taking us through everyday motions

many if not most of us

think of as living, taking for granted

every ripple, every wave,

carrying us to the very edge of a world

created for ourselves,

all-comers welcome while remaining

in their seats lest they rock

this Ship of Fools chartered by ‘betters’

to take the rest of us

towards a landfall some call ‘Heaven’

where no going down

of the sun, no pillow promises made

at dawn cruelly broken

Selfies, everywhere

like dogs at a bitch on heat inciting

priority attention

as becomes nature’s motivation to fill in

time’s blank spaces

with living, loving, thriving species,

meant to mature,

(since such is the cycle of natural life)

by filling in their own blanks

with living, loving, thriving issues,

and any black holes

with light enough to show we were here,

we bit players, we flotsam

and jetsam, we bringers of all history

coasting shores of infinity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Catcher in the Eye done Good

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

Years ago, I saw a painting in an art gallery that has made me reflect on the beauty of memory, capturing and preserving a precious moment in time. Yes, a photograph can do much the same, but a painting is so much more than a photograph; it reads aloud to the inner ear, thus inviting the inner eye to appreciate its every deliberate brush stroke in much the same sense and sensibility as one might appreciate iambic meter in a poem. As with all creative endeavour, the art lies in its artlessness, artist rewarding observer with an insight to a process that requires we tap into reserves of feeling of which the chances are we are not consciously aware.

Memory may fade, but the art-poem remains a part of us and will be sure to manifest itself in our approach to life, love, nature and human nature…; indeed, to  just about everything.

‘Oh,’ I hear some people say, ‘but that’s only if you have the imagination…’ Bollocks, to that! Imagination can and does work on our consciousness, yes, but it also works on the subconscious, possibly to even greater effect. So never let anyone lead you to believe you have no imagination; the human condition is better than that even where, sometimes, human nature fails us. 

Imagination is that Catcher in the Eye of which we may or may not be well aware but which, in any case, remains one of the sweeter mysteries of the human condition. 

CATCHER IN THE EYE DONE GOOD

Young girl with daisies
in the hair darts across a greeny field;
though brooding sheep
keep a sidelong watch on playful lambs,
the merry scene
attracts a frisky foal, prancing
at a boundary fence

Innocence

Young girl with daisies
in the hair glimpses a pretty butterfly,
gives laughing chase;
one tangent wing at a finger's tip,
angel face glowing
hope’s pink blushes, elusive happiness
caught on canvas

Copyright R. N. Taber 1974; 2001

[Note: An earlier version of this poem - under the title 'Brush Strokes' - first appears in Love and Human Remains: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Something to be said for Karma

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

It is only human nature to worry about life's unknown factors, especially when they directly concern us and we have little or no control over either their presence or potential development.  A few years ago, I started worrying about a lesion on my leg as to whether it might be skin cancer or a sign of diabetes or whatever…until I fancied I could hear my mother whispering one of her favourite sayings in my ear, ‘If you worry, you’ll die and if you don’t worry, you’ll still die one day so…why worry?’

My GP referred me to a dermatologist and a shot of liquid nitrogen did the trick. No cancer there.

I wrote this little poem at the time and returned to it when I first discovered I have prostate cancer in February 2011. It’s not a particularly good poem (what is a ‘good’ poem, anyway?) but has proven very therapeutic. I can still hear my mother’s voice in my ear expressing approval. (She died of cancer in 1976)

SOMETHING TO BE SAID FOR KARMA

Worry, worry, worry,

will get us nowhere at all;

worry, worry, worry,

and we’re heading for a fall;

positive thinking

is the only way to go

before worry, worry, worry,

hits an all-time low

Worry, worry, worry,

gets our knickers in a twist;

worry, worry, worry,

(far too many woes to list);

a positive thinker

is the only kind to be

since worry, worry, worry,

won’t ever set us free

Worry, worry, worry,

and life is sure to pass us by,

all the best things in life

between earth, sea and sky;

positive thinking

(easy enough to say)

unites mind, body and spirit,

brings each into play

Worry, worry, worry,

and we’ll surely die one day

(when, who’s to say?)

so come, let’s make hay…

A positive thinker

is the only kind to be

since worry, worry, worry

won’t ever set us free

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011; 2015

The Hurt Garden

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

Most if not all of us have a hurt garden where we prefer not to go in waking moments. Sleep, though, invariably has other ideas …

Dreams may well leave us confused, but mind, body and spirit have a way of making make more sense of us there than any waking moments.

THE HURT GARDEN

Blades of grass

tossing to and fro in the wind

like restless sleepers

trying to make sense of a kind

where logic and reason

have no place, square up to facts

of human nature

from which its indigenous hosts

would run away

but nature will ever have its say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Stems of flowers

swaying to and fro in a breeze

like drunken crowds

on losing their heads to whims

where logic and reason

have no place lest they make more 

of human nature

than excuses its indigenous hosts

from home truths

put aside, inclined to have a say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Dead leaves

drifting here, there, everywhere

like lost children

looking for a place called ‘home’

where logic and reason

concede its predilection for love

of human nature,

lend its indigenous hosts access

to life forces

in denial, ever finding their way 

to us left struggling to make sense

of dreams

Birdsong,

signalling a love of life and nature

to practised ears

in the market (for a guide of sorts)

where logic and reason

have a place, but are never enough

for human nature

whose indigenous hosts ask more

of its humanity

than dream litter left in its garden

on the assumption they will clear up

the mess

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015 

Wannabe Hero or the Real Thing?

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

A 'regular' blog reader has contacted me via the the Comments Box to ask that I repeat the link to an interview I gave about my poetry to a postgraduate student of multi-media journalism who emailed to ask if I would mind being the subject of a project. Benjamin Richter, a very talented young man, and I have his permission to post the link on my blog. As the blog reader did not give an e-mail address, I am posting it here in the hope that he or she will read today's post. You may need to copy the link into your browser to access:

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html

We all have our own take on dreams, psychiatrists not the least. Many if not most of us like to think of ourselves as - subconsciously at least -  painters of our own dreams rather than simply subjected to whatever some proverbial Sandman happens to dish us. Some years ago, someone put to me that the greater part of what we know as wakefulness is but a dream, and the greater part of what we call sleep, a living nightmare. An interesting hypothesis, I thought at the time, and wondered how we would be expected to tell to which mind-body and spirit truly belongs...?

I guess it's much as my old English Teacher, 'Jock' Rankin used to say, "You can set your mind to anything if you try, Taber, but don't always expect to succeed, and never forget there is always a  price to pay one way or another."

For the record, I am still trying...

WANNABE HERO OR THE REAL THING?

I've painted pictures
only I will ever get to see,
an alternative reality
to the world surrounding me,
confounding me, creating
an alternative persona to one 
I am meant to be

I have lived in pictures
where only I will ever go,
a surrealist panorama
of the world surrounding me,
confounding me,
creating the kind of person
I 'm not meant to be

Ah, but in every picture
I'll never (really) get to see
a vibrant wood
for a heavily painted tree
or sail an ocean
for expecting its every wave 
to answer to me

I might even mistake
cloud shapes for skylarks,
even missing out 
on nature's other songs 
for starry heavens 
inviting a poet's (wry) take
on life and death

There are no people
in my pictures, smiling,
waving, kissing...
only ghosts, ever gesturing
loss, regret, and pain,
daring me to make the best 
of a sorry world

I archive the pictures
only I will ever get to see
an alternative reality
to all that's surrounding us,
(still) confounding us,
making of us what we will,
we sleepwalkers

Though the memory
exhibit visions of the mind,
imaging what lies
behind the world's chaos
and our confusion,
let's not mistake art for life,
risk missing out

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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

‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides

away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind

bathtime rituals

for potential divas to woo

an audience, willing captives

of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,

sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,

telling us off for things

we’ve done, forgotten, never

meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to

repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory

of someone who’ll never

sit there any more, words in

the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all

to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on

the ceiling spread,

fill the eye like a weepy sky

passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Tell-Tale Mind

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

How many of us, I wonder, show ourselves to others as we really are rather than whom we would like them to think we are? Many people seem to think I am a strong person and very self-confident. Yet, nothing could be further than the truth. I portray a fictionalized version of myself in which I believe, because I have never quite managed to work out what it is about my real self that I can believe in.

Sometimes, when we are discussing mutual friends or colleagues with other friends and colleagues, even members of our own family with other members of the family, we are not infrequently surprised by what we hear and may even wonder if we are talking about the same person. I guess we present a different persona to different people. Yet, those personae are all the same person. So are we, I wonder, all caught up in our own fictions?

I have kept faith with my sexuality since I came out as an openly gay person many years ago, and am certainly not ashamed of being gay. At the same time, all those formative years of having to lie because being gay was a criminal offence have left their mark. In those days, I had to create an alternative persona in order to survive. On the one hand, there was the conscientious if not very bright schoolboy; on the other, there was the shy, scared teenager struggling to come to terms with an awakening sexuality and finding ways of satisfying it that would have shocked just about everyone I knew. I’d cruise for sex and love-hate every minute of it. I was like a good-bad character in a novel. My life, for years was a split reality. Even now, years on, no one knows or will ever know how much so or just how much of that split personality remains.

Oh, I am no Jekyll and Hyde, but if someone were to ask, ‘Will the real Roger Taber stand up please,’ it would be a motley collection of characters that step out of the storybook that is my life.

This poem is a villanelle.

TELL-TALE MIND 

I’d show the world what I would be

(as if make-believe pays)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Terrified, as I confront adversity,

a sailor on angry waves,

I’d show the world what I would be

‘Be brave, go free,’ love told me,

quick to learn its ways,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

From nature, I take my humanity

(lost in a temporal maze);

I’d show the world what I would be

I have kept faith with my sexuality,

(mastering its ways)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

The heart, it seeks refuge in poetry

(from its nightmares);

I’d show the world what I would be,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2011

[Note: Yes, I know I’ve been oversimplifying in my preamble and not saying anything original, but readers often ask what lies behind a poem, what prompted me to write it in the first place. Besides, I am writing a blog, not an essay on the human psyche.]