Insight, the Twinkle in Time's Eye

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Rarely are our thoughts processed more intensely and tested than as we ponder questions about life and death, especially the latter if only because it represents The Great Unknown and we human beings prefer to know (for sure) what we are up against. Throughout our lives, we have at least the semblance of some control, but over the time and nature of our death we have little or none. More disturbing still, what happens once we are cut free of a life that so loves to play us like puppets on a string and go into free fall? Something or nothing…?

Those who subscribe to a religion think they have the answer while those of us who don’t take hope from nature’s cycle of renewal.

Whatever, thinking about such things, homing on any conclusions (however arbitrary) we may reach and acting on them, is probably as good a preparation for life and death as we can aspire. 

There is much to be said for the old adage, look before you leap, but it has to be said that the looking eye does not always see; it is the inner eye, as prompted by searching thought, that is more likely to home in (or not) on not only what is it looking at but also looking for.

Looking, finding, reworking, making reparation, whatever ...  life, art and science owe much to its wannabes and wanna-knows. As for what anyone really thinks about all they see and hear, few will ever get to know unless they have access to his or her personal space.

INSIGHT, THE TWINKLE IN TIME'S EYE

Squatting on a patch of waste land,
imaging the growing emptiness
of wishful thinking feeding streams
of consciousness running through
alleys, backyards and housing estates,
watching the living and the dead
vying for time's favours in diaries
and poems they were always meaning
to write

Addressing the insubstantial nature

of shadows, inner sight focusing

on the human spirit playing host to body

no more or less than the flow of blood

feeding its veins as myth's muddy waters

close in, re-assessing attitudes scrawled

in everyday graffiti or glued to pasteboard

points of view; scientific, religious…

(does it really matter?) ever attempting

to win us over by fair means or foul

since that first day at school, now exposed

for the saddest, cruellest trick of all

Articulating on life as mind-body-spirit 

preparing mind and body to chance

a coming of age, despite envious gods

and their petty tyrannies if upstaged

by human selfishness, stuff of immaturity
feeding an ego-led imagination
(Oh, and whatever happened to that?)
and leading us astray who so love to think
we know it all

Focusing on and interpreting the purpose

of one starry eye watching out for us

who are frantically rummaging mortality,

for a kinder fate (surely?) than to be left

drifting in full view of old gods gathered

to gloat, our humanity come less than right

for running the gamut of human history

posed by selective readings between lines

of cautionary tales told by one, Jonah,

from the belly of a whale last seen spouting

gobbledegook to hunters well up for the chase

no more or less than for its own sake

Mind-body-spirit, cultivating the wry twinkle

of all-seeing eye

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Death Star’ in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber 2010.]

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

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.]

Blur

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

While waiting for a cataract operation on my right eye, I began to consider a deeper significance of the blur in front of me everywhere I went. [I am pleased to report that the procedure went well on March 1st and I can already see better although my vision in that eye remains a little watery.)

Now, why write a poem instead of an essay or a novel? Why paint a picture rather than create a sculpture? Why compose a symphony and not a ballad?  Could it be that the inner eye strives to focus on what can never quite come into focus because it does not exist, but remains a haunting presence needing to find ways to make itself felt if not known…?

BLUR

Everything is a blur;
I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look up
to spot friendly faces in clouds,
hanging from Earth’s ancient rafters
like celebration bunting

Everything is a blur;
I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look down
to spot familiar tracks in wet grass
leading to places I love whose smell
fills me with spring

Everything is a blur;
I am left peering into a misty rain...
Yet, I have only to let birdsong
into mind-body-spirit to negotiate
safe passage with nature’s finer forces
to Mount Parnassus

Senses, conscience, reasoning…
Blur is everything

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

In the Eye of the Beholder OR Inner Eye, Inner Ear, Sheer Poetry

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Although I do not subscribe to any religion, that doesn’t mean I have any less love for the architecture of many religious edifices; for much of religious music, too, even if I cannot relate the words of hymns and other songs of praise. For that matter, regarding Christianity, I also have a great appreciation of much of the sheer poetry to be found in its Holy Bible. I once commented as much to colleagues during a debate about religion over a meal after work; all said they found this offensive. I could not, they insisted, have my cake and eat it; one even accused me of blatant hypocrisy when I added that I am not only often moved by examples of religious architecture and music, but they also appeal to a strong sense of spirituality in me even though I take that from nature rather than religion.

I mean no offence to anyone. An eye and feeling for beauty are unconditional, surely? Few people, I suspect, whatever their religion, could fail to be moved by the sheer beauty and magnificence of some of England's great cathedrals of which the oldest is Salisbury.

As for religion itself, I intend no offence there either when I often attack the hypocrisy I find in many religious minded people for whom their religion is a closed shop, and they have little if any time for anyone who does not pay the appropriate dues. I would like to say these are a in a minority, but at 66 years-old experience suggests otherwise. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and thank goodness for all those men and women who not only subscribe to their religion, but also to humanity in general, regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

Yesterday I uploaded today’s poem as a voice-over to a video shot by my close friend Graham who has been visiting family in Wiltshire. (See also below.) If you want to see other videos I have uploaded to my YouTube channel, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

This poem is a villanelle. [As regular readers will know, I am not averse to taking the occasional liberty with ’hidden’ rhyme.]

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Ancient and beautiful,
a watchful maternal eye;
Salisbury cathedral

Its spire, proud and tall,
reaching up to kiss the sky;
ancient and beautiful

Welcoming one and all
(no enquiring who or why);
Salisbury cathedral

Hear cloisters softly call
upon peace, its tears to dry;
ancient and beautiful

An ages-old clock’s toll
offering pilgrims sanctuary;
Salisbury cathedral ...

Ode to love, one and all,
(embracing Henge nearby);
old and beautiful ...
Salisbury cathedral

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Note: Alternative title added 8/19.