Regret, Companion to the Fool

 

 Roger, 1945-2023. A note from his friend Graham

 

Welcome from the ‘Essex Riviera’ at night. Thank you for reading.

Job, a minor contributing author to Bible canon, suggests that ‘wisdom comes with age’. Although I’m fairly sure that accumulating years merely confers experience and wrinkles. It’s rather retrospection that informs better choices.

Roger always promoted the idea of agreeing to differ. Even where diametrically opposing opinions clash. It’s the difference between a feisty debate or a blazing row. It is the discipline of healthy discourse, rather than viewing an opposing opinion through the distortion of ad hominem. In a wider sphere, it’s the difference between coexistence and war.

It is an uncomfortable truth that, as with most friendships, Roger and I had our occasional arguments. Even to the extent of hitching up petticoat tails and flouncing away in high dudgeon! Looking back, especially now that he’s passed away, I regret those occasions. They evoke a sense of self-recrimination, and rightfully become somehow absurd under the shadow of mortality. Most of our arguments occurred in the early days of our friendship. Predominantly over my awful timekeeping. I was in my early 30s and so blasé about punctuality. It annoyed him intensely - and rightly so. Mea culpa.

In so many ways, Roger made me a better person. He encouraged me to read great works of literature. He offered constructive criticism with my early attempts at poetry. A mentor really - as well as a best friend. We agreed on most things. But there were contentious issues at times.

The toppling of Edward Colston’s statue by student activists on 7 June 2020 in Bristol, being an example.* Yes, it’s true that destruction of public property is, on the face of it, criminality. And true, reinterpreting history for a political agenda is also problematic. (In this instance relating to Black Lives Matter.) However Roger’s disapproval of ‘vandalism’ by students seemed to me at odds with his core ethos on decrying hypocrisy. It looked like a sop to a politically conservative viewpoint (or perhaps it simply highlighted our generational divide). He regarded the removal of the bronze cast (by John Cassidy, 1895) as a version of mob-rule (ochlocracy). The destruction of ‘art’, Roger suggested, was a prelude to another Kristallnacht** and the horrors that followed in its wake. It remains a valid viewpoint.

But was it really ‘criminal damage’ or mindless destruction in this case? There’s something inescapably symbolic, and subjective, about placing a figure on a pedestal in a public space. It implies moral virtue. Specifically, Colston (1636–1721), a pious, ‘Christian’ man and MP, made various grandiose gestures to charities like Almshouses - to great public acclaim (virtue-signaling in modern terms). A self-publicising philanthropist. Although, his effigy emanates that unholy stench of hypocrisy. As an investor in the slave-trade, he weighed the lives of enslaved Africans as little more than chattel. Does this eugenicist worldview inspire civic pride among Bristol’s multi-ethnic community…?

It seems befitting that Colston’s effigy was cast into the depths of Bristol Harbour. A watery grave shared by so many of those rebellious West Africans aboard trans-Atlantic slave vessels. Karma perhaps. Nowadays, let’s face it, Colston would be languishing in prison for people smuggling and modern-day slavery - rather than occupying the elevated position to which his blood-money afforded him. In my opinion, ridding the public space of him was an act of cleansing. And a collective gesture of moral aestheticism. It is surely valid to question the legitimacy of those figures who are held aloft as pillars of society? (As are the motives of those local civic leaders who strive to keep them there.)

With hindsight though, I realise both our opinions were valid. Both grounded in history and both informed by moral conviction. Opposing interpretations…

I think the point I’m trying to make is that obstinacy (or hubris) has a price to pay. It can be an obstacle to making amends with someone dear to our heart. And to some extent the conceit that accompanies a fervently held opinion deafens a person to other perspectives and blinds them to another’s legitimate counter-argument. It mutes expressions of regret and stifles the words ‘I’m sorry’. It is the genesis of regret. In my experience, a degree of humility is easier to live with than regret.

 

‘A man is not old until his regrets take the place of his dreams.’ Yiddish proverb

 

Notes:

* It was quite a heated disagreement. I think my indignance stems from visiting Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles in Ghana, 2006. Both housing churches to administer blessings and hear the prayers of men like Colston. And their depravities regarding enslaved female Africans resulted a fair-skinned, biracial local population that continues to this day.

** Nazi thugs destroying Jewish homes, hospitals schools and businesses in Germany, 1938.

 

* * *

 

REGRET

I move with favour or prejudice
among men, women, children;
To whomsoever calls me out, I will
always answer, no one denied
the music I bring, Blues I sing;
Rich, poor, famous, infamous, saints
and sinners… welcome to tap into
a wisdom some say down to Fate,
lessons learned too late

I touch without favour or prejudice
the loose thread missing a button
that old sock, empty vase in rooms
yawning with boredom for what’s
on TV and must have heard that CD
a thousand times (surely?) though
any sound better than none and
(finally) settling for a plaintive purr
by a lap tray set for one

I bury without favour or prejudice
forgotten dreams, misspent ideals,
wishful thinking on falling stars…
meant to light a kinder, better world;
alas, not meant to be though we
mull over old letters, photos, poems,
home videos… as dead as the cat
whose meows we miss and listen for
at every mealtime

I move without favour or prejudices
among life’s pleasures and losses

 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015. From the collection ‘Accomplices to Illusion’.

Highs and Lows

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

"Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change."  - Thomas Hardy 

" Life is your see-saw. You may not stay balanced long, but you can aim for a high after every low. Sanita Belgrave

"What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains." - Tennessee Williams

“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks”. - Plutarch“

Now, most, if not all of us, get to experience the highs and lows of life as we progress; anyone, at any age, from any walk of life. At the time, the lows may well seem insurmountable, but trust the human spirit to see us through, and see us through, it invariably well, all the kinder and quicker with the love of and help from those who care about us. Whatever, like it or not, life is a learning process; we can learn and progress or be in denial and risk being unable to move on…

Common sense, do I hear you say; nothing new, heard it all before…? Almost certainly, yes, and definitely from yours truly. Even so, knowing something and acting on it are two sides of the same coin, as we all know only too well. To be sure, we may flip the coin and it gives the wrong message. Ah, but if, even just a part of us recognizes that it is not answer to our problem, we need to trust heart-and-soul to message mind-body-spirit to…flip the darn coin again, and again… until it comes up with what it senses is the right message. Thereafter, we can feel confident about confronting our problem/s and working them through to a kinder end than when we first flipped the coin… and be reassured that, if things take a turn for the worse at any stage, we can always blame it on that old standby ‘fate’… wry bardic chuckle

Many a time have I tossed that coin and, many a time, blamed ‘fate’ for not helping me bring whatever mess I happen to be in to a hastier, more ‘successful’ conclusion. But… success, of course, is relative and getting out of whatever mess we may have fallen into - invariably down to ourselves, however inadvertently, from start to finish - well, that’s a successful outcome, and don’t let anyone tell you any differently who may have judged you for getting into a mess in the first place.😉

Creative therapy, in any shape or form, is a sure way to help us sort our thoughts, give us a new, more positive perspective on life. How can I be sure? Why else do you think I have turned to writing – especially poetry – since schooldays…?  I may not be famous, in any ‘celebrity’ sense, but, believe you me, having reached my late 70’s is a personal success story. We all have them, it’s as my mother once told schoolboy Roger, on my failing an important exam: “That’s what life is all about, dear, picking yourself up and starting all over again.” 

 I didn’t ‘get it’ then, and was sceptical, to say the least, but I certainly ‘get it’ now! wry bardic grin

HIGHS AND LOWS

It’s our early years
that help shape the rest of our lives
taking on perceptions
of family and friends, wondering where
and why a rainbow ends,
open to such fairy tale explanations
as will lay the foundations
of a worldly rhetoric appearing to offer answers
that leave us asking more questions

In our middle years,
we stand at a crossroads in our lives
taking decisions,
learning about their consequences, taking
responsibility for them
(or not, as the case may be) mixed feelings
throwing us into a confusion
we can shrug off, prepare to bluff our way through
or put mind-body-spirit under review

In our later years,
we may look back with anger, regret, 
even degrees of shame
for paths unwisely taken, mistakes 
haunting mind-body-spirit,
yet comfort, too, for heart-and-soul’s capacity
for learning from them all,
nurturing personal space, the wiser and more mature
for the nature of its past-present-future

For better or worse, in brush strokes on a live canvas,
find home truths that are the be-alls and end-alls of us 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022 

Boy on a Rocking Horse

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2012; I recorded it on You Tube at the time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0gU5W8OQ2I (direct link to Video)

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtabe (for my You  Tube channel)

‘Powerless Structures is the beautifully created figure of a boy on a rocking horse and was the latest art work to grace the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square.

The poem I have recorded over the video unfolded in my mind the more I considered what the sculpture meant to me personally. The rocking horse that stood by my bedroom window when I was just a boy provided an escape from the harsher realities with which, as a child, I was poorly equipped to cope. My imagination would let fly and take me into magical realms of fantasy, fairy tale and legend as regular readers of my blogs and/or collections know. .

Hopefully, video and poem complement each other in such a way that where the poem is a fairly personal take on the sculpture, the video leaves plenty of space for the viewer to bring his or her own take to this bronze figure of a boy on a rocking horse and latest art work to grace the 4th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square. 

In line with the existing iconography of the other statues in the square, the child is elevated to the status of a historical hero. However, where they acknowledge the heroism of the powerful, this work celebrates the heroism of growing up. The image of a young boy astride his rocking horse encourages observers to consider the less spectacular events in their lives, which are often the most important.

Danish artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset are widely reported as saying it was “up to the public to love it or hate it, but hopefully not ignore it."

Never ignored, that’s for sure.

BOY ON A ROCKING HORSE

Boy on a rocking horse,

rocking to and fro,

are you part of a happy family,

and do they love you so?

As a child in my bedroom,

I used to rock to and fro,

looking out of my window

at the garden below …

One day, at my window,

rocking to and fro,

a swallow settled on the sill

and said, ‘Hello.'

‘Don’t you ever get fed-up

just rocking to and fro

when there’s so much to see,

scores of places to go?’

‘There’s far, far, more to life

than rocking to and fro.

Fly with me and see the world,’

said the swallow.

If I had been happy enough

rocking to and fro,

now I longed to see the world

like the swallow

I became, oh, but so excited

that I rocked to and fro

so hard that, suddenly, I took off

through the window;

at first, flying was a terrific thrill

(after just rocking to and fro)

seeing how people, places, animals,

make up the world we know 

Then I recalled my little room

where I’d rock to and fro,

believing my folks would miss me

and how I loved them so.

‘Please, swallow, take me home

where I can  rock to and fro,

feel I belong, be part of a family

if only because I miss it all so.’

The swallow then took me home,

to just rock to and fro

by a window, looking on a garden

in a house (still) haunting me so

as any child who ever dreamed

while rocking to and fro

on a safe, friendly rocking horse

will, oh, but surely know

I know you, Boy on a Rocking Horse;

we met years ago, in a looking glass

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Cops, Queers and Caravaggio

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

This poem is from my gay-interest blog archives for February 2012.

I was asked at the time to repeat the link to my poetry reading on the 4^th plinth in Trafalgar Square in July 2009; my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley’s One  & Other ‘living sculpture’ project during which I read some of my gay-interest poems among others;the British Library has since confirmed that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date. Meanwhile, B L continues to archive my poetry blogs so that is welcome news.

The degree of homo-eroticism in much of Caravaggio's work and the fact that never married has led critics to speculate for years that he was probably gay, but ... who cares? At the end of the day, what has a person's sexuality to do with his or her character, skill or talent?

COPS, QUEERS, AND CARAVAGGIO 

We met in an art gallery,

enjoyed each other’s company

all day;

at his flat, we chatted over

coffee and, finally, he asked me

to stay;

although both nervous,

we made love, the two of us

in heaven...

nor just having fun;

good to be close to someone

again;

his mouth, warm and sensual;

an embrace far more than sexual

wanting me…

as more than a friend

but no mere means to an end

physically

He brought me breakfast

in bed and I turned a shade red

at his uniform;

I hadn’t asked about

his career, content just to be there

with him…

so it came as a shock

to see him dressed as a P.C.

for the beat;

tried to tell myself

it didn’t matter, heart all a-flutter

and cold feet;

at the door, a shy goodbye,

copper’s shirt and tie a brick

wall…

that crumbled with an embrace

as we saw, face to face, nothing

mattered at all

Lovers till he moved away;

friends to this day

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: This poem has been (very) slightly revised since it appeared in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Supper with Leo

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

This poem is taken from my gay-interest blog archives for December 2012. Readers are welcome to explore the archives of either or both blogs; they are listed on the lower right hand side of blog entries.

When he was twenty-four years old, Leonardo Da Vinci was arrested, along with several young companions, on a charge of sodomy. No witnesses appeared against them and the charges were dropped. Renaissance Florentines didn't make the distinctions we make about sexuality today. Apparently, it was not uncommon for young men to get into sexual relationships with each other.

Leonardo had no known relationships with women, never married, had no children, and raised many young protégés, including one nicknamed "Salai" which means "offspring of Satan. Salai was generally thought to be something of a rascal. Salai stayed with the painter for over twenty years and appears many times in Leonardo's sketchbooks.

It’s interesting (to say the least) just to speculate that one of the greatest painters of all time may well have been homosexual. At the same time, why should a person’s sexuality even matter?

Those Renaissance Florentines had the right idea and no mistake.

This poem is a villanelle.

SUPPER WITH LEO 

A great painting,

like supper with a friend,

says everything

Eating, drinking,

living, loving without end;

a great painting

Promising, denying,

sharing wine with a friend,

says everything

Giving, taking,

those trying hours we spend;

a great painting

Believing, disbelieving

what’s seen, heard to the end,

says everything

Passion, suffering,

though death, too, a friend;

A great painting

says everything

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

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

The Play's the Thing OR Audience Appreciation Paramount

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

‘One of the first conditions of happiness is that the link between Man and nature shall not be broken.’ – Leo Tolstoy

That quote leapt to mind one evening only recently as I recalled observing a glorious sunset from my bedroom window that looked over the backyard and garden of my childhood family home.  I experienced such a link then, like an electric current so powerful it made my head swim and almost knocked me off my feet.

I was only 13 years-old at the time, and that feeling of intense, personal bonding with nature has never left me even in my darkest moments. Whenever people let me down (as people are inclined from time to time) I go for a walk in the country, let Earth Mother  dry any tears and lend me the strength to rise above any ill feeling.  

Nature, too, of course lets us down sometimes; Earth Mother can be a harsh mentor. Yet, mentors teach and the better pupil will learn. While we should not cherry pick what we choose to take on board or reject, I suspect most if not all of us do just that. Whatever, I look around and see the world Shakespeare once likened to a stage as parts of a whole, and I bond with that whole, and the whole is nature.

I also recall my English Teacher at secondary school, 'Jock Rankin', commenting that we are to nature as nature is to us, and the sooner humanity gets to grips with that, the greater its chances of survival.  Like everyone else in Class 5B, I nodded and said “Yes, sir!” although none of us had a clue what he meant at the time. When I summon that moment to my mind’s eye now, though, more than half a century later, I am not in class at all, but that same bedroom window experiencing an epiphany in a sunset…

Ever get the feeling we are all but players in a docudrama, have been such since the beginning of time, and doubtless will continue to be so as past, present and future merges into that infinity we call death .... ?

"The play's the thing..." says Hamlet in Shakespeare's own play, referring to how his play will give the audience food for thought on recent events. Much the same, though, can be a said for all performance arts, (indeed, all art) in the sense of its intending to  give any audience serious food for thought as well as pleasure and entertainment.

THE PLAY'S THE THING or AUDIENCE APPRECIATION PARAMOUNT

Glad blue skies, a stagy backcloth

to sad, naked branches

barely hinting at far kinder times

yet to come once winter

has worked its worst on humanity

for wanting to prove itself

better, stronger than Earth Mother

while working its worst

on all things bright, beautiful

and freely given

Sad clouds leading us a merry dance

for wondering if any tears

that may (or may not) fall are meant

to harm (even kill) or nurture,

inspire, re-invent an ethos of peace,

love, kindness and respect

for nature, human nature, all-inclusive

no cherry picking for any ego

demanding the bright and beautiful

serve its own interests

Grey skies, making no sure promises

(or threats) to naked humanity

anxious to avoid the worst of nature

yet to come once winters

of the heart have worked their worst

on human mind-body-spirit

obsessed with survival for its own sake

rather than acknowledging it

all the brighter and more beautiful

for freely given

Amber-red skies, reflecting uncertainty

on earth as it is in heavens

anxious to see us avoid the very worst

we knowingly or unknowingly

propagate for the sake of a greater good

as reworked by dogma

bent on killing freedom of expression

by imaging only the brighter

and more beautiful in its own eyes,

on its own terms

Wide, open skies, ever inviting all nature

and human nature to a life

freely given, never for the asking or taking

besides Time’s remit

written in tablets of stone before its seasons

flowered, died and rose again

as humankind woke, slept and woke again;

testimony to old gods, new gods

and digitalised mock-ups... no match

for Earth Mother

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

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

The Gift Horse

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

Some readers have contacted me in the past to say they cannot access You Tube for one reason or another so I am posting another poem + video here today. (See below.)

Alternatively, you may be able to access it directly on You Tube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5zt3lkwT9k

OR Go to my You Tube channel and search by title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

The 4^th Plinth is the north-west plinth in Trafalgar Square in central London, UK set aside for a rolling program of contemporary art works. The current work depicts a skeletal horse in bronze. The artist, German-American Hans Haacke, says it is a tribute to economist Adam Smith and English painter George Stubbs. (The horse is based on an engraving by Stubbs taken from ‘The Anatomy of the Horse’ published in 1766.) Tied to the horse’s front leg is an electronic ribbon displaying live feed from the London Stock Exchange thereby completing the link between power, money and history.

There are many metaphors for wealth and power of which The Trojan (Gift) Horse of myth and legend is but one…

THE GIFT HORSE 

Measure of means, icon for history

gifted with beauty and power;

a horse, once tamed, a worthy ally

An ages-old metaphor for industry,

no less so for sport, and leisure;

measure of means, icon for history

Well trained, no more trustworthy

a vehicle of human endeavour;

a horse, once tamed, a worthy ally

Sometime victim of the inhumanity

human beings show one another;

measure of means, icon for history

Life force against worldly adversity,

(live metaphor for Earth Mother)

a horse; once tamed, a worthy ally

Imaging death as a skeletal memory,

elegy to nature and human nature;

a horse, once tamed, a worthy ally,

measure of means, icon for history

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

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.]

An Affinity with the Spiritual Nature of Ancient Woodlands

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

Where Earth Mother has held a mirror to human nature for centuries, it is small wonder that even great artists struggle to capture glimpses of its reflection, relying on the inner eye to explore its similes and metaphors just as a space probe might home in on moon craters…

AN AFFINITY WITH THE SPIRITUAL NATURE OF ANCIENT WOODLANDS

Leafy dome, a spread of crystal prisms;

like a familiar cheek deflecting its tears

Stained glassiness, images of a sunset;

pink flesh betraying shades of ageing

Moon, shining through, beacon of hope;

human spirit anxious for inspiration

Stars, drawing on mythology and religion

to engage the human mind’s potential

Clouds, siding with the world’s sceptics

shaping like endings to like beginnings

Dome, engaging with our metamorphoses,

inciting we creative dreamers to waken

Glassiness, flushed with dawn’s promises;

pink flesh, responding to nature’s kisses

Birdsong, like distant bells ringing changes;

humanity, left trailing old gods and new

Between earth and sky, our time and space;

to each of us, a prism (some call it Heaven)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Notes on the Physiology of Art

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

I have often wondered why it is I seem to write my best poetry when I am feeling low, heading nowhere, and life a burden. 

For many years, I have suspected that the deeper into nowhere we go, the stronger the human spirit’s anticipation of finally getting somewhere comes into play; to this purpose, we may yet be close to if not at our best, albeit unknowingly, just for encouraging the human mind to shed its load and travel light - until the next time we enter into the realms of what invariably goes by the name of 'inspiration' for want of a more detailed, personal explanation...
This poem is a kenning.

NOTES ON THE PHYSIOLOGY OF ART

No burden on my back,
heart lighter for the notes
of a love song
embracing a friendly darkness
like a falcon’s feathers
before unhooded and set free,
imaging winged grace, 
challenging infinite space
in your place

The thrill of uncertainty,
potential for an epiphany  
on the inner eye
cause and effect ever on call
(metaphor for the soul?)
pointing to forfeit and reward,
endgame, peace,
once time ready to yield up
its secrets

Mind, emptied of desire,
body, exhilarating in flight
from temporality,
vulnerable to a spirituality
custom made
to nature’s specifications,
shaped and reworked
by humanity’s native genius
for anticipation

Find me, art's eternal poetry,
flying in the face of mortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

The Scream OR Potential for Self-destruct

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

I was born on the winter solstice, 1945 so, yes, that means I will be 65 years young in December. I suspect most if not all of us have our share of disappointments and frustrations in life, sadness and tragedy too, upon which demons pounce and often never (quite) disappear. [Demons from long-ago closet years as a teenager and young man when gay relationships were illegal here in the UK haunt me still, but less so as time goes by.]

Looking back at my life and looking inwards at my inner self, I can track the scream just so far …then either it stops or I stop looking, I am never sure which. I know I will hear it again, but in the meantime, there is life to be lived and its pleasures to be enjoyed. As for the scream, it may well haunt me, but as I discovered long ago, it can’t hurt me … unless I let it.

Do you, too, hear a scream? It is silent, yet sometimes I think it is the loudest sound we will ever hear, shaking the whole body now and then as if it were no more than a leaf in a storm.  I guess the trick is to ride out the storm and find comfort in anticipation of its passing and the sun coming out again …as it will, and does … as inevitably as human nature calling upon its greater strengths and making the best rather than the worst of ... whatever. 

'The Scream' by Edvard Munch (1893); image from Wikipedia. One of several versions of the painting "The Scream" (title: Der Schrei der Natur, 'The Scream of Nature') at The National Gallery, Oslo, Norway.

THE SCREAM or POTENTIAL FOR SELF-DESTRUCT

Five years-old and waiting for a scream

that I knew had to be there, but never came

so I put it down to imagination,

too young to articulate on the surrealism

of self-destruction

Fifteen years of looking for the scream

(an awakening sexuality trying to find a voice)

but I put it down to imagination,

not quite ready to do battle with the prejudices

of convention

Twenty-one years of imagining a scream

much like a poorly read poem in a bad dream,

kept putting it down to imagination

fired by stresses of home-school-work situation

and birth sign

Thirty-five years of living with a scream,

mind in freefall, body soaked in its own sperm

for venturing beyond imagination,

homing in on an impotent rage to get even,
(self-destruct button)

Fifty-five years of looking for the scream,

first heard in the womb, always hurting my ears,

for being put down to imagination

by a socio-cultural, one-upmanship dogma

some like to call religion

Sixty-five years, of harbouring a scream

arguing for a sense of spirituality with sexuality

and nature second to none

in a configuration of common humanity

left to the imagination

In millions of screams across the world,
the same message to mind-body-spirit as in art
that we stop, look and listen
to this human forest of deciduous trees
pleading preservation

No killing it, but ever running the scream
to earth in life-love-death if only to find an ally
in the human condition, sword
of freedom in the grip of a human spirit
demanding regeneration

[London, June 2010]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010 (Rev. 2018)

It's Never too Late for Love Poetry

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

[Update 3rd Oct 2018: A reader has asked about the videos on my You Tube channel. To fully enjoy, you need to keep the sound on to hear the poem/s I read over the video/s. Oh, and if you would like to comment on any of the blogs, feel free to post in the Comments box. I never publish comments (too many ignorant trolls) but always read them; include your email address if you would like a reply.]

Now, sometimes we so wish we could put the clock back and let life and love return to the way they once were. Oh, but especially love!

It is never easy to let go of love. Even when the mind-body-spirit is close to admitting defeat, two hearts bonding as one may well have other ideas …

It's never too late even for the poetry of love which, as many of us have discovered, can often be revived once regret and a sense of loss pause long enough kick-start the heartfelt renewal of a forward looking mind-body-spirit; even death cannot kill the poetry of love, as any of us who have lost loved ones well know.

IT'S NEVER TOO LATE FOR LOVE POETRY

As I lay on a pillow thinking about us,

you opened the door and came in,

crossed to the bed, lay down beside me,

cradled my head, swore you loved me,

despite having chosen to see me in agony

(knowing you’d cheated on me again)

begging to share a bed left sad and lonely
as my tears for our love left to die

I resisted your embrace, closed my eyes
to care lines telling far too many sorry tales
on you-me-us

You let fly with a passion to stay a part
of a gloriously light-dark history

that had seen us feeding off our need

for one another, making believe we were

in love and nothing else mattered

but flames of mad desire, devouring us,

little left once over and done, but ghosts
having braved a fire no phoenix dare...

Unless (a familiar murmuring in the ears)

we quit this soap opera of ours and give love 
a fighting chance...

A tempting offer, love almost persuaded

by our tears, but suddenly sees through

its disguise, tells us straight, "Enough lies";
Ah but restless libidos had other ideas

and chose for us (as we knew they would)

the bitter-sweet prose of fallen heroes,

nor was it some God punishing us for hadn’t we  

already seen to that ourselves?

May the 'live' mind-body-spirit we share
stay with us as even we journey through eternity;
forever, love poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Too Late for Poetry' in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; like many of my poems, I revised it in line with Time's insisting life teach me new lessons.] 

Human Nature, the Archives

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

Since the beginning of time, history has been recorded in various art forms in caves, palaces, tombs, wherever … proving, if nothing else, that in the sense that human nature runs the gamut of good and bad, it remains, like time itself, an essentially constant factor in an ever changing world.

This poem is a villanelle.

HUMAN NATURE, THE ARCHIVES

Hieroglyphics on a stone wall
revisiting war and peace,
we creatures great and small

Demands that we ignore a call
to heed the bigot’s cause;
hieroglyphics on a stone wall

To each our own, walking tall
in Earth Mother’s eyes,
we creatures great and small

Where pride anticipates a fall,
find religion on its knees,
hieroglyphics on a stone wall

All things bright and beautiful,
compensating for our tears,
we creatures great and small

Lines left barely decipherable
marking out life histories;
hieroglyphics on a stone wall,
we creatures great and small

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Figures in a Landscape OR Home Truths, Chief Protagonists in Art Forms

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

Regarding my You Tube channel, it appears that some viewers have not realised they should keep the sound on to catch the poems I read over the latter videos nor that the poem is also included in the description that accompanies each video. Hopefully, this information will add to your enjoyment as Graham and I have a lot of fun shooting the videos and writing the poems. We don’t have a state of the arts video camera, though, so don’t expect a BBC level production:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Among all art forms, it is possibly a painting that brings us closest to considering home truths we prefer to keep at bay...? Could that be because all art probes the secrets of nature and human nature that, as we connect with and relate to it, in one way or another, we cause at least some to surface? T

Art, indeed all the arts, are one of the rare occasions when time really does wait for us to make our mark (for better, for worse) and make ourselves heard... whether or not anyone chooses to look, see, hear, listen...

FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE or HOME TRUTHS, CHIEF PROTAGONISTS IN ART FORMS 

Colours, plain enough

to see, tricks of light

portraying the same scene

if differently, discerning inner eye

homing in selectively

Familiar enough backdrop;

humanity busy scrapping,

hell-bent on settling old scores

under the very noses of arguably

elected ‘betters’

Society stripped of dignity,

its integrity left wide open

to question, hypocrisy ripped

away like ozone, ways of seeing

increasingly less clear

Earth Mother going it alone;

world conforming

to tribal identities, a conflicting

evolution, pictures in an exhibition

up for speculation

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]